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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166547">And Upon This Rock, I Will Build My Church</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLillie/pseuds/TheLillie'>TheLillie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Plot, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Emotions!, F/F, Gen, M/M, Mormonism, Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Religion, Religious Discussion, Self-Insert, Siblings, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Beholding Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Desolation Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Flesh Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Vast Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), Warnings In Chapter Notes, accidentally actually tied it into the podcast plot, as in i was just writing statements for my &amp; my brothers' fearsonas and then, but also the whole idea of comeuppance and justice via punishment is inherently flawed, fearsonas, key theme: homophobes and racists getting their comeuppance, so. key theme: delivering justice isnt something any individual should have total power over, the jmart is now canon-typical banter and fabric rustling!!!!!!!!!!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:53:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166547</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLillie/pseuds/TheLillie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The eyes didn't so much open as...emerge, pushing up through each raw spot of skin. They crawled out of her cheeks and into the light, countless eyes, each lidless and tiny but unmistakable.<br/>"You've been so worried what would happen if your wife knew your sins," she said, "that you forgot God already knows."</em><br/>--<br/>A compilation of statements regarding the recurring figure of a creature in the form of an LDS missionary, and other related figures. Presented chronologically according to date recorded, November 2015 through September 2018 and beyond.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. S1: Gas Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Elder Robin Christiansen, regarding his missionary experiences and his father's suicide. Original statement given seventeenth of February, two thousand six. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG1, before MAG22. Warnings: religion, religious abuse, suicide, death of a father, unhealthy family dynamics, burning, immolation, homophobia, homophobic language, child exploitation, child pornography mention, eye horror, eye trauma</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement of Elder Robin Christiansen, regarding his missionary experiences and his father's suicide. Original statement given seventeenth of February, two thousand six. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.</p><p>Statement begins.</p>
<hr/><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>I’m not sure if I was supposed to include 'Elder' in my name up there, but then again, I guess I have a complicated relationship with what I'm always supposed to be doing. I'm not supposed to be doing this. Like, I really, really shouldn't be doing this. I lied to my companion. I told him I was going to the Embankment, needed some personal scripture study by the river, get that quiet mindset out near nature. At least, as near to nature as it gets in this city. I reasoned that it's not too far from here. If he comes looking for me, I can be there quickly.</p><p>It's sort of funny that I felt so drawn to this place, to come tell everything that happened, considering that telling too much is what got my dad into this trouble in the first place. But the moment I saw your sign, when Elder Frost and I were walking past it the other day, I just...I knew I had to come in. I didn't know what else I could do.</p><p>My dad was a good man. Even after all of this, I still believe he was always striving to do the right thing, serve people, follow the Lord's example. As I was growing up, he was always in the bishopric or stake presidency or some other important calling―leadership positions in our church. That was always his top priority in life, serving the people in our church: organizing events, conducting meetings, collecting tithing, doing worthiness interviews, directing the young men to help old ladies with their yard work, feeding missionaries. My mother and my siblings and I always came second. I was so sure that was a good thing. Dad was a captain of God's army in the war for salvation. And as long as I did everything I could to be exactly like him, I'd be just fine.</p><p>I was thirteen when Sister Petersen came to our home, so it must have been in ‘99. Late February. I don't remember her companion at all, but she must have had one. Missionaries always travel in twos, so there must have been another woman there, but if asked, I'd never be able to tell you her name or what she looked like or even if she was tall or short, dark-haired or light. Sister Petersen was short, with a perfect missionary's smile of big white teeth and her hair dyed blonde with the brown roots showing through. Her eyebrows were a dark brown, too, which stood out against her face a lot―not in a bad way. I think what they did most was make her eyes stick out even more. Pale, bright blue, same color as the very edges of a gas fire on your stovetop, right where the blue was almost hot enough to turn white. </p><p>She singled me out when talking to the family―said I seemed cool, that she sensed a kindred spirit in me. Part of it was that we were both Danish, something you could tell by our last names―that they were spelled s<em>-e-</em>n rather than s-<em>o-</em>n. But deeper than that, she and I specifically were a lot alike, she said. I was probably more like her than like my actual family.</p><p>I said something awkward about her eyes. She said she'd always wished she could have brown eyes, like mine.</p><p>I had this routine for her visit down to a science. A pair of missionaries would come over for dinner every few weeks, they'd chat and play with the kids for a few minutes while our mother finished cooking, we'd eat, they'd share a spiritual thought and a prayer with us in the living room, and then the kids would get bored and go off somewhere else while the missionaries talked to Dad for a while more, and then they'd leave.</p><p>But this time I wasn't bored. Sister Petersen kept glancing at me and winking during the lesson, when nobody else could notice. Sometimes she'd cross her eyes or stick out her tongue, trying to make me laugh―I'd smirk, trying to be cool. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Later I'd convince myself that it was a little boyhood crush, latching on to the nearest young woman who paid me any attention. That wasn't it, though. I don't think I was even really that interested in just a platonic or a curious sense. I literally could not stop watching her. Like those snapping, clicking magnets children get as toys, that you can't let the little ones put in their mouth or they'll attract to each other after being swallowed and wrench their insides together. I'd turn my head―twitch my eyes―even try to close my eyes―and with a snap they'd be right back on her.</p><p>After the prayer, when my younger siblings had all dispersed to go play and my mother to clean up dinner, I followed Sister Petersen to Dad's home office. Stealthily, cus I knew they had to send the kids off to be distracted on purpose―this was grown-up business. I crept close to the wall as they small-talked their way down the dark hallway. Down in this part of the house, Dad's office was the only light on.</p><p>They went inside and sat down, and left the door open just a bit. From the hiding place I'd chosen, I couldn't see Dad―just a strip of Sister Petersen. One eye, one ear...cheek, arm, torso, and a semicircle of skirt as she sat in a folding chair before Dad's desk. For a few minutes I couldn't figure out why I'd been so keen to spy on them―they seemed to be talking about boring church things, planning a lesson on repentance for the youth. He asked if she had any personal experiences, her own or her friends', that she thought the youth might like to hear.</p><p>She smiled that perfect white missionary smile and said, “I think you might have one. About Anna Hyatt.”</p><p>Dad hesitated a little, but then started talking about Anna Hyatt―a girl we'd known in our last ward, in Arizona, before we moved to Idaho. I'd never known her that well, since she was five or six years older than me, but I remembered that she was always real quiet and polite around my family. Dad talked about how she'd fallen into a bad crowd when she started high school, dated before she was old enough, got herself a boyfriend who wasn't a member of the Church. A bad influence on her, he said. As he talked, Sister Petersen didn't stop smiling. Didn't change her expression at all. Looking back, I'm not sure if she blinked.</p><p>Finally he got to the point of his story, the sin Anna had needed to repent of―she'd bought a disposable camera and taken some risque photos of herself on her boyfriend's request. She never gave them to him, though. Dad said the Holy Ghost convinced her to back out before it was too late, and that she stopped in to confess to the bishop and start the repentance process. And Dad told Anna that she needed to break up with her boyfriend, find some better friends within the church, and turn the photos and camera over to him for safekeeping. So she'd avoid future temptation. Figuratively and literally hand over her sins to the Lord.</p><p>When he finished talking, Sister Petersen's smile finally changed―it got wider.</p><p>“Those photos are still at the bottom of all those papers in the drawer of that desk, aren't they?” she said.</p><p>My dad hesitated. And then he said yes.</p><p>“Your wife doesn't know about them, does she?”</p><p>My dad said no.</p><p>“You think you would just about die if she ever found out. Wouldn't you?”</p><p>And she wasn't saying ‘don't you―don't you think you would die.’ She was saying, <em> ‘wouldn't </em> you die.’</p><p>Sister Petersen wasn't ugly by any means, but she didn't have the best complexion. Her skin was fair, but dotted all over with spots of brown and red and pink, some freckles but mostly acne scars, like I was just barely starting to get every time my mother couldn't stop me fast enough from picking at my skin. On me it was just a little spot here and there, usually close to my hairline, but on her they shaded her face like a meteor shower, blistered pink constellations edging from cheekbone to jawbone and stopping abruptly.</p><p>But in this moment, as she asked my father if he'd die, I realized they weren't scars at all. They were sockets.</p><p>The eyes didn't so much open as...emerge, pushing up through each raw spot of skin with this high-pitched squelching noise that I still can't get out of my head late some nights. They crawled out of her cheeks and into the light, countless eyes, each lidless and tiny but unmistakable. All that had been pink was now wet white sclera and black pupil and that bright hot blue iris, all focused directly on my father, and I heard his chair scrape backward and his breath get quick and shaky and loud. </p><p>“You've been so worried what would happen if your wife knew,” she said, “that you forgot God already knows.”</p><p>At that point my mind must have known that I should run, that when things like this happen you're <em> supposed </em> to run―but I kept watching. I didn't even try to look away.</p><p>Sister Petersen stayed in her folding chair, grinning so wide that she should have scrunched up all those little eyes, but they stayed perfectly round on her cheeks as she said, “You thought you had an out, though. You had a plan to pin the blame away from yourself. If you ever thought you were close to getting caught, you could just move the photos to Robin's room. Teenage boys are so curious, so susceptible. And maybe he would find them first, and he really would get curious. He'd feel something. He wouldn't grow up to be a queer like you're so scared he will. But it wouldn't work.”</p><p>My father's chair scraped again and he <em> argued </em>with this face that was more eye than skin, “I'll figure something out! I'm teaching him right! He won't turn out like that!”</p><p>“You'd rather he turn out like you? Using his power to prey on scared teenage girls, time and time again? He almost wants to. He wants to be just like you.”</p><p>That's when the eyes moved. In unison, every one of them―every one but Sister Petersen's proper eye, the real one in its right socket―turned to me, and I felt my skin burn. Every exposed inch, face and arms and bare feet and ankles, lit up under that gas-stove blue and <em> burned. </em> I tasted blood as I bit my tongue to keep from crying out. She knew I was here. She'd known all along. But I couldn't let Dad know. That was all I could think, was that I couldn't let Dad think there was something wrong with me, I couldn't confirm his suspicions―I couldn't stop thinking that if he knew I was listening, he'd know I was bad, he'd know I wasn't like him, he'd know that all his fears were true―</p><p>“He's going to be so happy without you,” Sister Petersen said.</p><p>That's when I felt a different burning. It wasn't just my skin, it was in my eyes. There were tears streaming down my face and I hadn't even noticed them because I could still see perfectly clearly. But soon as I did notice them, the part of my brain that somehow still managed to think like a thirteen-year-old boy thought, I can't let her see me crying. And I closed my eyes.</p><p>When I opened them, she was gone. I could hear my father weakly crying. I discovered that I was able to move again, and I ran for my room.</p><p>I wish I could say that was the last time I ever saw her. But that very night, I had a dream that we were standing side by side, looking in a bathroom mirror. I was looking at her reflection instead of my own. She'd changed back to her real face―two brown eyes, no more, no less. They were filled with tears, but she was still smiling at me. And she said,</p><p>“You deserve better than this. You deserve so much better than him.”</p><p>My dad was dead three weeks later. His office caught fire. The way he'd sealed the door shut kept most of the flames from spreading to the rest of the house, but everything in that room was obliterated. Tithing records, meeting schedules, books upon books of church doctrine and theory, drafts for talks Dad was planning to give. Anna Hyatt's photos. Probably photos of other girls, if Sister Petersen's 'time and time again' was anything to go on. Dad's barbecued skeleton was strapped to his chair with bungee cords. His eye sockets weren't just burned, though―they'd been slashed through with his pocketknife. Not that anyone really let me see the remains. I must have overheard them talking about it.</p><p>Somehow we managed to get through it. So many people had loved my father―he really was a good, righteous man―and they came in droves to help us get past this trial. The rest of my teenage years were almost normal, and when I was nineteen I got called on a mission here to London. I've been here for almost a year and a half now; I'm getting close to the end of it. I'll be back in Idaho in time for Thanksgiving. And that's…</p><p><em> ...not </em>the end of my statement.</p><p>Elder Frost has only been my companion for a few months. He's just barely started his mission―I'm supposed to be the experienced elder training him. But he's so much better at this than I am. He's smarter than me, and wiser, more dedicated to the work and willing to serve without hesitation. He's tall and tan and well-spoken and has the darkest brown eyes I've ever seen. I commented on them when we first met.</p><p>When he shook my hand, it burned. I don't know how I managed to not react, but Elder Frost never guessed there was anything wrong. I knew the feeling on my skin right away. It was the feeling of a fire so hot it was almost white, of a hundred tiny eyes staring straight at me, looking at me, looking into me―it was the knowledge that this was what my father felt, as he burned to death, trapped by his own will in his own chair as the fire rose on every side and burned off his clothes to bare his skin to the light, and burned off his skin to bare his heart, and boiled what was left of his ruined and bleeding eyes.</p><p>But more than that, it was the knowledge that everything my father had ever feared was real. I was going to fall in love with this man, and <em> everyone </em> would <em> know. </em></p><p>And Elder Frost said he wished he had eyes like mine―they were such a bright blue.</p>
<hr/><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement ends.</p><p>Most of these facts are easy enough to confirm. Brigham Christiansen did commit suicide in March of nineteen ninety-nine, though his motive was more likely related to the collapse of his electrics company, which the statement conveniently leaves out, than to supernatural blackmail. I asked Sasha to try for an interview with Anna Hyatt, but she said that if any of this is true, Miss Hyatt definitely won’t want to talk about it, and should be left alone. I suppose it wouldn’t be worth the international phone bill anyways.</p><p>Robin Christiansen stayed in London for several months after his missionary service technically ended; he and his companion, Marcus Frost, broke away from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints shortly afterward. They seem to have been happily married since 2008. There’s a note from Gertrude indicating that she found a number of photos related to the case, but, unsurprisingly, they are nowhere to be found within the file. I had Martin try searching for them, but the only ones he found―or perhaps the only ones he was interested in, given his propensity for sentiment―were wedding photos. Elder Frost matches the description given, and Elder Christiansen’s eyes are definitely blue. There is no evidence they had ever been otherwise, but they are indeed almost exactly the color of a gas stove’s fire.</p><p>As for this Sister Petersen character...the complete lack of information, her first name or her age or where she’s from, makes her impossible to track down, if she ever existed. There is one guest in these wedding photos almost matching her description, but the picture quality makes any spots on her skin unclear, and her eyes have been scribbled out with ballpoint pen. So that’s nothing to go on. Even with Tim scouring all the mission records to the Christiansens’ home area in the late nineties, I doubt we’ll find anything concrete. There are far too many Mormons named Petersen.</p><p>Recording ends.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. S1: Bitter Chill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Lars Morten Pedersen, regarding his ordeals along the westward trail with the James G. Willie Handcart Company. Original statement given in a letter to Jonah Magnus, 19th October 1856. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG23, before MAG39. Warnings: religion, religious persecution, sexual references (nonexplicit), injury, blood, child harm, child death, starvation, hypothermia, graphic bodily harm, gore, undead, immolation, suicide</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Statement of Lars Morten Pedersen, regarding his ordeals along the westward trail with the James G. Willie Handcart Company. Original statement given in a letter to Jonah Magnus, 19th October 1856. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Statement begins.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>My dearest, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dearest </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jonah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I will continue to call you so, for I do still consider you dear to me―though you can be sure I do not write this letter without a great complexity of sentiments. In the months since I abandoned your Institute, I have been so occupied as to believe I had finally cast you from my mind―but as I compose what will likely be my final writings, I find I can think of none other. I try to turn to my Savior for comfort, for guidance, but can only picture your face. And so I write to you my confessions, and my condemnation, and my farewell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In truth, I believed I would be finished thinking of you the moment I left the Institute to return home to Denmark; yet you persisted in haunting my mind’s eye. When I began study in the Lutheran ministry, I again was sure I would have no more reason or room to think of you. But it was not until those men from New York came and preached in Møn that I had something strong enough to push all other thought out. I had finally found truth in God, truth the Lutherans had only ever guessed at, and it was a truth powerful enough to overtake all other priority.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is why we left Denmark―myself, my mother and father, my brothers and younger sisters―and followed across the ocean, to join the Saints in their American Zion. While our household was quick to come together in faith, we faced exile and persecution from friends and neighbors. To leave was our only option for safety if we did not renounce our truth. It was a trying departure, especially for the younger children. Father sold the house and the farm and nearly all our possession to afford the journey. My sweet sister Mette, only eleven years old, couldn’t bear to part with a treasured pair of beaded slippers; she promised Mother she would carry them herself all the way to Utah, if allowed to keep them. It was less than a mile of walking after reaching land that she became weary, and abandoned them on a rock beside the trail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The material losses were only the beginning of our hardship. The trek was long and slow, made worse by Father’s rheumatism and Morten’s bad knee and Mette and Kirstine’s youth. Provisions dwindled quicker than anticipated, and similarly did cold set in. It began to snow in September, when we had only reached Nebraska. Though some counseled the company to wait out the winter, we pressed on into the chill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon our rations had to be reduced, each person receiving mere ounces of flour and water a day. Mother does her best to plan and to manage; she cooks and fixes the rations in a way to give us more good from it, rather than giving each their portion of raw flour as some do. A week ago she remembered that an old pincushion she brought from Denmark was stuffed with bran. With joy she tore it apart, mixed the bran with our meager flour, and baked bread which we ate with relish. It did not last long, though. Now we have returned to plainest bread, bitter crusts which we keep in our pockets to savor through the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her efforts to keep our spirits hardy are very nearly in vain. Already fifty of our company have died, and many more are sure to follow before we reach the promised land.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even now, I cannot say I regret this emigration. We are traveling to Zion to freely worship God, and I will hold no regret for that. Mine only chagrin is in my own weakness of mind: that even my most devoted prayers cannot exorcise you from me in these final desolate moments.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Sounds gay.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Sasha. How long have you been in here?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Not long. Is this a Jonah Magnus letter?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>To Jonah, from a Lars Pedersen. I’ve yet to discover if the Archives hold anything in our founder’s own hand, but he does seem to receive an awful lot.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Whoa-a. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>received </span>
  </em>
  <span>a lot. How salacious.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(mildly disgusted) </span>
  </em>
  <span>You know that’s not what I meant. Besides, given the sexual repression of the time, even if there </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>some sort of...those emotions, between Jonah Magnus and Lars Pedersen, there’d―</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>TIM</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I heard ‘sexual repression’ and ‘Jonah Magnus.’ Are we roasting that crusty Victorian?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Ah, now we know how to find Tim in a crowd.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I believe the Institute was founded in 1818. That would classify Mr. Magnus as Georgian.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>John’s found a very homoerotic-sounding letter from a Lars Petersen.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Pedersen.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>He went to America after breaking up with Jonah, but now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>(exaggeratedly melodramatic, nigh on swooning) </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t exorcise him from his mind in these final moments. Ahh!</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>TIM</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Ooh, Jack Magnet’s a heartbreaker!</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(pointedly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>The statement continues, ‘My thoughts are no longer of yearning, however, but of contempt, for you and all your band.’</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(gasp) </span>
  </em>
  <span>He said yearning!</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>He said he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>yearning.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>TIM</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>He said ‘no longer,’ which means he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>yearning before. Checkmate.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(cautiously amused) </span>
  </em>
  <span>John, why are you trying to refute this gay historical gossip? This is usually, like, your favorite thing.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I’m trying to be professional. Still on tape.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>TIM</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Booo. Power’s made you boring.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>No, no, you’re right. We’d better leave the boss alone to do his evil recordings.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I do not sound evil, I sound professional!</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>TIM</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Imitates Archivist voice, mocking him) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Head Archivist of the Madness Institute, muhuhuahahaha!</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>SASHA</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(overlapping, also mocking him; sound fading as they leave) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding his dastardly plot! Woo-o-oo!</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[DOOR CLOSES]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Who needs a circus with those two around? </span>
  <em>
    <span>(clears throat; re-adopts his actual Archivist voice.) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Statement continues.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>My thoughts are no longer of yearning, however, but of contempt, for you and all your band, and your slavish fascination with horror. I have seen horror, dear Jonah, things far more fearsome than your tales of monsters and ghosts, for they are real without question. They are not the product of otherworldly forces, but of natural destruction and human frailty. I have seen the tiny prints of barefoot children, stained completely red in the snow from their blood; mothers burying ice-stiff infants under nothing but snow, knowing the ground to be too hard to break; men collapsing beside their wagons and being assumed dead until they wake and try to peel themselves to stand, tearing frozen flesh from where the frost had welded them down. If they do not freeze, they starve; if they do not starve, they become ill; if they are not ill, they are exhausted. Your talk of eyes and darkness and filth are nothing to the bitter chill of death that I have felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have heard it said that, scientifically, cold is nothing more than the absence of warmth. Anyone who believes so has never felt cold like this. It is pressing and sharp, a stabbing presence keener than any flame. Even when there is no wind to be felt, the stagnant chill pierces through my garments like thick yet skeletal fingers. It burns my skin. It turns my breath to a cutting blade. It cracks and pulls apart my face, as my eyes and mouth crystallize, as my pen shuffles near of its own accord between my blistered fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dear Jonah, my pen moves of its own accord. My fingers are blackened and dead, and my blood does not flow to revive them. Even my thoughts feel sluggish in this cold, and yet they are put to paper as easily as if I were back in my office in London, transcribing your stories and your statements. I remember those days, Jonah, working under your gaze. I can see you in my mind; I can nearly feel the warmth of your hand upon my shoulder. Yet your eyes remain cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time I truly saw the eyes of someone I loved, it was Mette, my sweet sister, waking me from a sudden slumber that had overtaken me without warning. I opened my eyes to see her face close to mine--she had just kissed my brow, and now stared at me with eyes wide and unblinking. Hastily she shoved something into the pocket of her apron and scurried back from me. I sat up, my bones stiff and stubborn, as though they no longer wished to allowe my movement. I tried to call out to Mette, but ice had sealed my lips shut. I could only moan a fraction of a syllable to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands closed to tight fists within her pocket. She told me she would not give it back, that I had no use for it, that it would be wasted, that I would not take it back. I rose from the ground haltingly, feeling my skin and muscle scream in pain, as if the very air were sanding me down with a harsh, coarse grit. Mette turned from me and ran, disappearing quickly from my sight into blistering white snow. I stepped after her, but was forced back by the wind, and stumbled. I do not know how long I staggered blindly from the trail before falling into this small cavern, and realizing I had somehow brought with me paper, pen, and lamplight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think that I have died, dear Jonah. Mette’s face, now crystal clear in my memory, was a countenance of disbelief and terror. I think the cold has killed me, and some devil which I am certain has followed me from London bids me rise. I fear I am become the specter I so disdained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shall not reach the Promised Land. Whatever I have become, I will not let it continue to terrorize my loved ones, and I will not let its uncleanliness touch the house of God. I am dry as tinder within this meager shelter, all moisture turned to ice; I shall seal this letter and break the lamp by which I wrote, and set myself alight. It is the only way to defy your devils and save my saints. I shall burn as Joan of Arc, as Abinadi, refusing to renounce my Lord and my church to the charred and ruined end. Perhaps then, as the flames destroy me, will I finally feel some warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As yours as I ever will be, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lars.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Statement ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another surprise appearance from history. In my cursory research into this statement I found much more information than I was expecting--apparently Latter-Day Saints are very adept at maintaining records of family history, especially of those who crossed the country as pioneers. While Lars died childless, all of his siblings survived and, in fact, flourished in Salt Lake, each marrying and having large families of their own. His brothers Morten and Anders were polygamists, and fathered 20 and 25 children, respectively. Over time, Pedersen did indeed morph into Petersen, accounting for the popularity of the surname in the area. I suppose it’s likely that Sister Petersen of case 0061702 is one of these descendants, but that does not narrow anything down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Additionally, with some help from Elias I was able to track down a record of employment for Lars. He only worked in the Institute for a short while, 1851 to 1855, as a personal secretary to Jonah Magnus; in modern terms his job description would be closer to that of an archival assistant, though the position was not quite so strictly defined as it is now. Also, for the record, Sasha asked Elias’s opinion on the homoeroticism of the letter, and Elias admitted that perhaps he didn’t quite have the eye that she did for...salaciousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for the contents of the statement itself, there’s no evidence of damage from either cold or fire on the letter, and Lars is officially listed has having died and been buried on the trail, with no further detail. The date of death does line up with the date of the statement, so while I hesitate to believe he wrote it posthumously, I’m not overlooking what he said about the letter practically writing itself. More than once we’ve had people come in who should be in no state to give a coherent statement, and yet…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think this place has some sort of effect on people. The Institute. And it’s not just tied to the location.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did find one book that includes a recounting of a journal entry from young Mette, written around the time of this statement. It does not mention Lars, but she does confess to having taken a piece of bread from a dead friend’s pocket, and that she has always severely censured herself for it. “May the Lord forgive a child so desperate for food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>End recording.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. S2: The Eyes of God</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ri Suddala. Incident occurred in Glendalough, Ireland, March 2009. Victim’s name given as Elder Cunningham. Statement given live, ninth of September 2009. Gertrude Robinson recording.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG75, before MAG77. Warnings: religion, religious abuse, colonialism, racism, internalized racism, homophobia, blood, gore, eye trauma, eye horror, self-harm, self-mutilation, getting lost, hypothermia, suicide mention, victim blaming, unhealthy romantic dynamic, betrayal, paranoia</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Case 0090909 - Sariah Suddala. </span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>

</h4><p>
  <span>Just Ri, please. I've been trying to distance myself from some of those more blatantly feminine things, if that makes any sense.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>

</h4><p>
  <span>Of course. Ri Suddala, then. </span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Speaking of which, can I get your honest opinion on something? You just―it's stupid, I'm sorry, but I feel like you'd be the kind of person who'd be able to answer. I just got my hair cut this short last week. Is it working?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Oh, yes. Very androgynous. I'd say it brings out your eyes, but they don't seem to need help standing out, if you don't mind my saying.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah. The eyes.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Am I right in assuming they're part of your statement?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Incident occurred in Glendalough, Ireland, March 2009. Victim’s name given as―?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I'm not sure if there really was a 'victim,' per se. Me, I guess. I know Sister Petersen was a victim of... something. Elder Cunningham was the one who ended up dying, but he just got what was coming to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Statement given live, ninth of September 2009. Gertrude Robinson recording.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Start with what led you to meet Sister Petersen in the first place.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Right. Well, that'd be my mission, then.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Imperialism―that’s all missionary work ever is, really. Pure and simple colonization, the expansion of the empire. Genocide disguised as salvation. It’s a damn good disguise, though―so often you don’t even realized you’re being kidnapped and brainwashed and erased. My mum grew up poor in India, and when a pair of perfect blonde Mormon elders promised her a better life in their church, she believed them. She moved to London alone when she was nineteen, and separated from her home and her family and her culture, she took comfort in the faith that God was always watching, and would always look after her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raised me and my younger siblings with that same faith. For a long time, I didn’t see any reason to doubt it. God seemed to make sense, you know? When I looked at the clouds in the sky or the blooms in Mum’s garden or the smiles on friends’ faces, it made sense to me that they’d all been made by some great and good artist. When I looked at people huddled in dirty sleeping bags on the city streets or news stories of war and famine, it made sense to me that they were all just missing a bit of light in their lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not to say I didn’t ever have my fair share of troubles in my own life. Financial struggles, mundane teenage mood swings and confusion, and I’m sure I don’t need to convince you that racism is plenty alive and well in the seat of the British Empire, years after the ships of conquest have ostensibly been pulled back to harbor. But when the jeers of my classmates or the sneers of teachers and bosses or the insidious, sneaking leers of television and adverts got too much, made me certain that I was too strange and too brown and too foreign to ever be loved in this world―I prayed. I thought about God, remembered He loved me, remembered He was watching. And I felt better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I was twenty-one, the time came for me to really share the light I clung to so fiercely. I was called to serve a full-time mission―assigned to spend eighteen months in a completely new place, focused entirely on proselytizing, more or less alone but for one chosen companion that would change every few weeks, and a few other pairs under one mission president. For those weeks we were together, that companion would never leave my side, and we’d keep each other in check, holding each other accountable for the twenty-four-seven spirituality and service this year and a half would hold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I landed in Ireland, and I met my first companion, a Sister Evans from Sussex. Then a few months later, Sister Evans was sent somewhere else, and I was paired with Sister McDowell from somewhere in the American Midwest―I can’t remember which state she said exactly. Sister Asare was from Ghana. We got to know each other pretty well in the time we had together―had a lot in common, but had a whole lot of differences too, loads of things we could discover and learn from each other. She was bright and kind and cheerful and soft and beautiful. I loved her more than anyone else I met on my mission, I think. I cried for ages when we were separated, weeping silently into my pillows night after night after night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then came Sister Petersen, out of nowhere, like a shooting star.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was so...magnetic, y’know? I don’t know how else to describe it. I could never pinpoint exactly what it was, but something about her made you trust her. Made you want to tell her things, made you sure she’d support you. I ended up talking to her about everything―not all at once, but eventually I didn’t have a single trauma or doubt or worry she didn’t know. She never told me anything about herself. But she was such a good listener―never tried to fix the problem, never tried to play devil’s advocate, never put in her own opinion. Just drank it all in. Let you talk your way through it and said things like, “I feel that. That must have been horrible. You deserve better than that.” I know, those sound like basic comfort words, but it was incredible how much it meant to me when she said them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One night I told her about Sister Asare. I confessed how much I’d loved her, and...how much I might have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>love with her. Mormonism doesn’t exactly smile on that, you know. But once I started talking to Sister Petersen about it, I just couldn’t stop until I’d just completely spilled out every fear I had about the whole situation. As soon as I managed to stop talking, I regretted it. If any higher-ups found out, there was no doubt I’d be sent home, kicked off the mission. Maybe even kicked out of the church.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sister Petersen put her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said, “God knows exactly how you feel. He’s felt it, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I scoffed a little, through my tears, because that sounded like such a trite, prepared missionary answer. But then she amended it, and said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I </span>
  </em>
  <span>know exactly how you feel. I’ve felt it, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she kissed me. On the forehead, at first, but then...well, then I kissed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning I was all pins and needles, novelty and excitement and elation wound up tight with shame and confusion and fear. I was so happy to have her near me, have her </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, but I was terrified what would happen if we were discovered. That day wasn’t scheduled for proselytizing―it was a prep day, where we’d meet up with some of the other missionaries in the area to plan the week out. We sat in the living room of some of the elders’ flat. I sat stiffly next to her, sure that we were under scrutiny. That one wrong move and Elder Cunningham or Elder Berth or President Rowley would know exactly what we’d done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of those, Elder Cunningham was the one I was both the least and the most worried about. He and I were friends, sort of. He was a Londoner, too, and same age as me, and friendly. Friendly to everyone, really, but always seemed to take a special interest in me. He was the most likely to realize a difference in my demeanor. But I hoped he'd also be the least likely to get us in trouble. I trusted him, almost. If nothing else, I trusted that the staredown Sister Petersen seemed to be giving him would make him think twice about starting anything. It didn't even occur to me that she might not be glaring at him. That she was watching him, just like she watched me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the day, we got ready to head back to the girls' flat, but Sister Petersen hesitated to follow. She told me she’d be along soon. Just had to take care of something. It wasn't far to walk. And I trusted her. So I gave her a tiny smile and a squeeze of the hand, and I left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never saw her again. At least...not with those eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did my nightly routine alone for one of the first times in over a year. It felt strange to go to bed without someone else just a few feet from me, catching my eye in the washroom mirror as we brushed our teeth. It was lonely. I slept light for a few hours. When the knock on the door came half past midnight, I flew up from my bed, ecstatic to have her back at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swept open at my touch like it'd been spring-loaded, and Elder Cunningham was there. His face was completely coated in blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I managed not to fully scream, but know I definitely shouted something, and I scrambled backwards. Elder Cunningham looked up at me and fell to his knees. The blood was streaming down from his eyes, the deep red making his ice-blue eyes look almost like they were glowing in contrast. He groaned my name and crawled toward me, the red dripping into his open mouth and getting spat out onto my carpet. I backed against the wall and told him to get away, told him to get to hospital or at least go call 999 or something. He shook his head and didn’t take his eyes off mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crawled up and grabbed at the hem of my nightgown, saying something over and over, sobbing and bleeding. He said he was sorry. He was so sorry. He never meant it like this. I tried to shove him away and asked what he was talking about, but he just clutched at my ankles and repeated it again. He was so, so sorry; would I please, please forgive him. Finally the only thing I could do was ask, “Forgive you for what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was never going to love you,” he said. “I was gonna marry you, and you’d have no way to refuse me. But I was never gonna love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of my mind I thought that was pretty presumptuous for him to assume I’d marry him. But at the front of my mind, he was bowing his head to the ground, and smearing blood on my feet―the opposite of the sinner anointing Christ with her tears. “She knew,” he said, “she knew I was just going to take you for myself.” That replaced his chanting apologies, now over and over again it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>she knew, she knew, she knew. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And in my head, I knew he was talking about Sister Petersen. She’d done this to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I kicked his face away and shuffled sideways on the wall to get far from him. But the room was small―the furthest I could get was the few steps to Sister Petersen’s bed, and Elder Cunningham lunged at me, prostrating himself on the floor. I screamed at him to let me go and kicked again, but he screamed at me louder, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she knew, she knew. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pushing at him with my legs and feet wasn’t working, so I bent down and shoved his shoulders with my hands. His skin felt hot on my palms through his shirt. His weight collapsed at my touch like a scarecrow―he flailed backward and spattered blood all across me and landed on his back, spread-eagle. Finally with some distance between us, I tried to make a break for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instant I turned my head away from him it snapped back. The instant I tried to take my eyes off him they were yanked back into place by a physical force, a tight-hooked elastic threaded through my pupils and into my brain. I stepped backwards, watching him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rose up to his knees, staring right back at me, still shaking with sobs but silent. I raised my arms defensively, ready to shove him even harder this time, but by now he knew that praying to me wasn’t a dire enough repentance. I kept watching him, immobilized, as he lifted his hands up to his scarlet face and jammed his fingers up under his eyelids. Blood wetter and brighter spurted down his cheeks as he dug into his eyes and clawed behind them. Then he pulled outward, and opened his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes dropped to the carpet without a sound. They didn’t bounce or roll; they didn’t squish or splat. They simply landed and stayed there, inches from his fingertips. The dark, slick pupils were still pointed right at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pressed my back further against the door, but was frozen from reaching for the handle, and didn’t dare look away. Elder Cunningham was doubled over, gone limp, his forehead  pressed to the floor. For a second I thought―maybe he’d died. Or at least gone unconscious. I stepped forward and bent down the slightest bit, just to see if he was still breathing, careful not to step near his torn-out eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as I touched his shoulder, he lifted his head, and streaming out of his empty eye sockets was a blinding white light. It was scalding and celestial and divine, and under it I felt flayed open, scoured thin as paper. I could see all of him, all at once. All his pride and his greed, all his ignorance and hubris, all the filthy careless solipsistic things he’d thought he could take from me―beaming out, burning me. Burning him from the inside out. He was shrieking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fell backwards, onto the door, and I found the knob, and I turned it and I bolted. Out into the night, barefoot into the snow. It was early in March, not yet spring, still cold as December, and our flat was just outside the woods by the Wicklow Way. I took off into the forest. I didn’t follow the hiking trail. Didn’t care where I was going. I just needed to get away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how long I ran. I just know that when I stopped, I had no idea where I was, and there was nothing around me but dirt and trees and darkness. The moon shone through the branches onto patches of melting snow, blue and glittering―but it was more shadow than light, and each flash of light just reminded me of Elder Cunningham’s burning gore. Finally I found a spot of darkness, and shelter: a dead tree fallen over another’s stump at the roots of a third, forming a sort of cave I could crawl into. My adrenaline had run out and worn out my mind, so I was too scared and exhausted to think of anything else but curling up in that little spot and closing my eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cold should have killed me. The temperature and the wetness of the rotten wood around me and the amount of time I was out there alone―I should have frozen to death long before the police found me. For a little bit, I almost assumed that’s what had happened. I felt warm and safe in the dark, and I fell asleep fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I dreamt that I was back with Sister Petersen, standing in front of our bathroom mirror. Just standing there, looking at each other’s reflections. She looked so sad. She told me Elder Cunningham had thought that by marrying me, he could save me from what he assumed must be my terrible life―his own personal colonization. On the top layer of it he thought I must be from a poor, dirty background full of crime and sin, and that taking me up into ‘higher society’ would be some grand rescue; on a deeper level, he thought giving me half-white children would lessen the curse that my ancient ancestors had brought on themselves to become dark in the first place. At that, her sadness became mixed with anger, and her eyes almost looked to catch fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She said I didn’t need saving, and that I was the opposite of cursed. She said I was perfect, and beautiful, and beloved. She said she’d be watching me. And she said I deserved so much better than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I woke to shouts and sirens, and a torch beam in my eyes. Someone tried to grab my arm, but then jerked away like they’d been burned by my skin. The snow around me was melted. My feet didn’t feel cold on the dirt when I stood. My nightgown was still a mess, but all Elder Cunningham’s blood had been replaced by singe marks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next few weeks were...sort of a blur, that doesn’t matter much and that I don’t like to remember. Elder Cunningham was dead in my bedroom, Sister Petersen had disappeared without a trace, and I’d run into the night with traces of his blood still on my feet―I was the prime suspect for the murder of both of them. Somehow I got set free within a couple weeks, not even a charge on my record; officially, he’d committed suicide, and it turned out almost all of her records had been falsified. She never existed. But my mission was over, and I was done with the Church. I came back to London and found myself a new flat with my brother, Jarom, who’s a year and a half younger than me and also trying to distance himself from the Church on account of coming out as gay. And then I found out about this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it were just this one instance, I would have left you all alone and dismissed what I saw as trauma twisting my memories. But ever since that day, I’ve been able to see...other things. It’s almost like reading minds, but―not quite so clear. I can see when people have ill will toward me. I can see when they mean me harm. A last blessing from Sister Petersen―or at least, I think she meant it as a blessing. A warning system. But so many people just passively on the street have such terrible thoughts without even noticing, without even caring. It’s―it’s made me paranoid. It’s kept me from being scammed or taken advantage of more than once, but more often it’s just kept my adrenaline up when I could have just ignored people’s dirty looks. I’m afraid wherever I go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I have Sister Petersen to thank for saving me from Elder Cunningham, then I thank her, unconditionally. I definitely have her to thank for feeling safe enough to come out, and to leave the Church. Whoever she was, I will never not love her for that. But at the same time, I’ll always hate her for what she did to my eyes. Because I woke up in that forest and I saw myself in the rearview mirrors of the police cars, and my eyes were bright blue. Not cold ice-blue like Elder Cunningham’s, but a hot blue, like a blowtorch―like Sister Petersen’s. When I’d looked in the mirror earlier that night, they were brown, the same dark brown as my mother’s and as all my ancestors. I swear they were. But nobody even seemed to remember that. Even Jarom insists they were always blue, always the odd one out. Sister Petersen saved my life, but in return, she took my family’s eyes and replaced them with her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She may very well have been my guardian angel, but that is unforgivable.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Have you had any further contact with Sister Petersen?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>RI</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>No. No other dreams about her, either―at least, not that I can remember. I tried looking for her, but didn’t have any luck. She never told me enough about herself to track anything about her, and the police never gave me any of the followup they might have found when looking into her fake records. I never even knew her first name.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Right. Thank you, Ri―please stay in touch if anything changes, or if you learn or remember anything else that may be of interest. I’ll be sure to do the same as our researchers process your statement.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]</span>
</h5>
<h5>
  <span>[INT. MAGNUS INSTITUTE, ARCHIVES, GERTRUDE’S OFFICE, LATER]</span>
</h5>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS ON.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>This is only the second statement I’ve received specifically regarding this individual―unless you count case 0051607, which is much more tangential to her―but it is enough to confirm my suspicions. I’m sure I would be able to find more cases regarding her at our American counterpart foundation. Regardless: Sister Petersen is most definitely aligned with our patron, though not with the Magnus Institute itself. Judging by a lack of interference from Elias while collecting this statement, I believe she is not actively working against the Institute, either. However she came by this power, she seems to be using it for a purely personal agenda. One that, honestly, I might say I commend, targeting those who use her religion to justify their bigotry or hunger for power. Those to whom she has gifted her gas-fire eyes are clearly considerably less powerful and can only slightly benefit themselves with them. Unnatural, but harmless. </span>
</p><p>  <span>Until given substantial reason to do otherwise, I will not take action against Sister Petersen or her protected. That is not to say I will leave them alone completely, nor that I will not be careful. I’ll continue taking the measures I have been to keep her away from myself, and I will continue investigating these cases alongside my...other work.</span></p>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</span>
</h5>
<hr/>
<h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Supplemental.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that I have more ideas of what to look for, thanks to the new tapes, I decided to check back through Gertrude’s laptop, and I managed to get into her email. Most of it is spam that’s been building up for ages, but I found one message that stood out―starred, marked as important, sent from archival assistant Emma Harvey, and yet left unread, despite the fact that it was sent in 2010. It says that Emma found some followup to case 0090909, and that she wanted to take Sarah to check it out after Gertrude returned―though it doesn’t specify what Gertrude was returning from. Was it some of her… ‘other work’ that she mentions? I-I went through the tapes Basira brought in and I found this. I’m going to assume that since this email has been unread for seven years, Gertrude did not receive that follow-up on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is so much here that Gertrude seems to find so simple, so easy to understand, that I have absolutely no clue about. Patrons and agendas and countermeasures. Is this why all the eyes are cut or scribbled out in her books? In the photos of Sister Petersen? Did she...did these countermeasures not work? Is there another suspect to consider in her murder?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m going to try and contact Ri Suddala, off the record. Not just to talk about the statement, but...to see anything she might know about Sister Petersen’s connection to Gertrude. Just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>End supplemental.                       </span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. S3: Re-Entry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0051607. Statement of Hailie Mathis, given July 16th, 2005.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG107, before MAG112. Warnings: agoraphobia, acrophobia, falling, death of a sibling, body horror, blood, brutal injuries, gore</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0051607. Statement of Hailie Mathis, given July 16th, 2005. Statement begins.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I want to preface this by getting it out of the way that this was not a hallucination, this is not a story, and this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a confession. As much as we fight, I didn’t want my sister to get hurt. I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t even want to be in Utah in the first place. If it were up to me, we would’ve spent our trip to America in someplace cool like New York or California, but Mum and her stupid geology, we had to go check out all the arches and things. If anything, it was Mum’s fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no. No, it wasn’t Mum’s fault Darian died, died so...horrifically. And it wasn’t my fault. I’m not going to beat around the bush. It was definitely, one hundred percent, the tall boy’s fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darian and I were actually really close when we were kids. She’s only a year and a half older than me, so my whole life, it was like I had a built-in best friend. Being raised by a single parent whose job moved us all over the country, we were each all the other had most of the time. We knew our mother loved us, but she was so busy that often Darian had to take over a lot of raising us. Making dinners, getting us to school on time, gently scolding me when my grades slipped. Usually I didn’t mind it too bad when she got all motherly on me. But by the time I was a teenager, I guess it had started to wear on me. She became the target of all my teen angst, which wasn’t a great combo with all the teen angst of her own that she was going through. Before long we couldn’t talk without shouting at each other or throwing personal insults being overly passive-aggressive. It went on for almost two full horrible years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally Mum noticed that there was something wrong with the two of us, that our relationship had turned sour, and she decided to take it upon herself to fix it. She took a few weeks off work and planned a family vacation, so we could all learn to love each other again. We each got to pick one thing about our destination: I wanted to visit America, Mum wanted someplace with cool rock formations, Darian just wanted to get as far away from London as possible. So Utah it was. Darian and I barely spoke to each other the whole time. Lots of long, long, silent drives through the mountains, staring out the windows of the rental car, too angry to enjoy the scenery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of our trip, we’d gotten so bored of rocks and trees that Mum relented to let us spend a day at an amusement park. The place was called Lagoon, up in the northern part of the state. I’ve never really been much for roller coasters―sudden drops always make my stomach hurt. I liked the spinning rides, though, the fun sort of dizziness, the wind in your hair, the simultaneous feeling that you could go flying but with the absolute security of the seatbelt or safety bar across your lap. Darian, on the other hand, found spinning rides boring and absolutely loved the heights and the falls of the other attractions. So whenever we used to go to amusement parks as kids, we had a system where we’d each pick a ride, stand in line together to talk and pass the time, and then one of us would sit on the side with our jackets and things while the other went on the ride she liked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t want to do that this time―I just wanted to go off on my own and let Mum take care of my sister’s pouting. But for some reason as we arrived in the park that day..I dunno. I looked at her and I didn’t see the anger or the self-righteousness or the snobbery I’d gotten used to in Darian’s face. She just looked tired, and kind of scared. I really can’t explain why she seemed so anxious as soon as we walked through the gates. But she did, and I felt bad for her, so I decided...what the hell. At the very end of this trip meant specifically to fix things between us, now I was gonna actually try. And what the hell, I wasn’t just gonna stand in line, I was gonna go on a ride with her. That made her smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one she picked was called the Rocket. It was a two-part ride, two thin towers with seats on the outside, each with a slightly different thrill experience―one called Blast Off, that shot you up fast and brought you down relatively slowly; one called Re-Entry, that took you up slow and then blasted you down. Two hundred seventeen feet tall. Blast Off seemed like the best of both worlds for our separate tastes, tall heights for her, epic speed without that dropping sensation for me. Mum took our things and went off to buy dinner for when we were done, and as we stood in line and talked―about nothing, really, just small talk and reminiscence and happy kvetching about how weird Utahns were―it was almost the way things used to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then I noticed the tall boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing in line right behind us, talking to who I assumed was his own sister. They had about the same look, same blue eyes, dark blonde hair on him and dyed gold with brown roots on her. Maybe I only thought of him as tall because she was so short, but―he was well over six feet, lanky, and by his face he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen and probably had at least one more growth spurt left in him. And he was talking to her, but he was looking at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, his staring was a little creepy, so I nudged Darian to point him out to her―but she was already looking at him, too, wearing that same tired-scared face she’d had earlier. I looked back at the boy, and he was grinning, so wide and so strange it almost seemed unhinged. And the way he was towering over us, looming―it seemed so pressing and invasive and unignorable, and yet at the same time, so far away. Like he could stand right up against us and I could lift up my arm to smack that freaky grin off his face, and I wouldn’t be able to reach it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asked if we’d ever been on this ride before. His voice was pretty normal, all things considered. I shook my head. He asked how we were feeling about it, on a scale of one to ten―one being ‘super stoked,’ and ten being ‘terrified.’ I was about to critique his method of measurement and say that one should be scared and ten should be excited, but then the young woman he was with punched him on the arm and told him to leave us alone, and I distracted myself with the decision that they were definitely siblings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ride was set up with seats in groups of four, so it was Darian on the end, then me, then the tall boy right next to me, then his sister on the other end. As the attendant made sure we were each sitting comfortably and secured our safety restraints, I could hear the girl repeating to herself how much she hated this, how much she regretted this, and the tall boy snickered at her. I couldn’t say I blamed her. Even without how weird this kid was, as I looked up the height of the tower and realized there was no going back, I could feel my stomach starting to hollow out with anticipation. I thought it was the good kind of scared, though―the kind a thrill ride’s supposed to give you. And Darian grabbed my hand and sort of smirked at me, and I remember thinking, okay. This is going to be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard the attendant telling us some final safety precautions, but didn’t really listen. I don’t know if they could have helped, in the end, but parts of me still wishes I’d paid attention. If anything, I’d rather have monotonous instruction replaying alongside these awful flashbacks than that boy’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>snickering. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He just kept laughing as the machinery jolted into motion, as the rest of us gasped, and then as we shot up into the sky. We shot up, and up, and soon enough his laughter and our screams and maybe our laughter were all indistinguishable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was laughing. I hate myself for it now. But I was. It was fun, it was all the speed and disorientation and exhilaration I’d been wanting, that I could never quite get on the spinning rides―and Darian’s hand was still tight in mine, and I thought for sure she was laughing too, so with all the mental faculties I still had that weren’t just “oh my God we’re so high up,” I still thought it was all okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then we kept going up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We didn’t slow. We didn’t turn or switch directions or even angles. We didn’t change our rate of ascent in the slightest. The brochure had said it would take us up two hundred feet in three seconds, but there is no way that was only three seconds. We rocketed up and up and up and up―if anything, we were getting faster. The wind slammed against my face and plastered back my hair, and my insides felt like they'd been left on the ground on the end of a rubber band that just kept stretching, no matter how close it seemed to snapping. In front of me there was literally nothing but sky. I tried looking down, and the ground seemed so small I could barely believe it was really there. So I thought my only option would be to look up, expecting just more of the same―just endless pale blue nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead I saw the top of the tower, coming close far too fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We hit it almost as soon as I saw it. The cart hit the top and stopped so abruptly that the shock of impact alone could have killed me. But no―instead, it threw open our safety restraints, and our inertia sent us into the blue untethered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I still had a hold on Darian with one hand. My other hand reached desperately for something, anything to hold onto, and found a hand so clammy and rough that I almost let go in disgust. But then I squeezed it harder, and the tall boy grinned that horrible far-away grin as his arm stretched out with me on the end of it. Even that wasn't enough to slow us down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Have you ever held a pen right in front of your eyes? Or a piece of piping, or really anything thin and cylindrical―you hold the end of it in front of the rest, until the end is all you can see, and you'd never be able to guess how long the thing really is. We kept streaming up into the sky, and I swear to you this boy's arm got longer. Not like it was stretching or growing, but like it'd been a mile long this whole time and we'd never noticed it―he'd just never been holding it at the right angle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly I wasn't just scared. I got angry. I just got filled with so much feral rage at this calm, creepy, grinning teenage boy who I knew had to be to blame for this, that I just wanted so bad to attack him. I couldn't hit him without letting go of either him or Darian, I couldn't reach him with my legs to kick. So I wrenched myself down and I sank my teeth into his wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reacted by shouting out, finally dropping that smile, and yanking me further down towards him, and then the ride finally started going down. My stomach lurched as I fell abruptly back into my seat, and the safety restraints snapped back over me. But a stomachache and a bruised tailbone were the worst side effects of my re-entry to gravity. Darian wasn't so lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I landed right into my seat. Darian caught the top of the tower on the way down. Well, her head hit the top of the tower―her neck hit the edge. Her inertia didn't stop the whole way. The back of her skull was scraped clean off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where the going up had been so fast but abstract, the going down was piercingly, definitively slow. Every air-cushioned bounce on the way was a gut-wrenching jolt, and combined with the sight of Darian next to me, and the cold wet slick of her blood dripping down our clutched hands, and the cloying metallic smell of gore―I still don't know how I didn't vomit. I heard people scream when they saw her at the bottom, but I didn’t take my eyes off. I couldn’t. Like a horror movie or a car accident, I couldn’t look away, not even when the safety bars unlatched again and the attendant tugged me out onto solid ground. I fell to my knees as soon as I knew the ground was there. The boy had let go of my hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't know what it was that finally persuaded my eyes to tear away from my sister's corpse, but when I did I saw the girl―the tall boy's sister―standing before me. She looked so sad as I stared up at her, an apology on her brow. But instead of saying 'sorry' aloud, she just closed her eyes and gently laid both her hands on top of my head. I must have closed my own eyes without realizing. When I opened them again, the siblings were gone. But Darian was still bleeding and dead. And people were calling the police. And Mum was shoving through to the front of the crowd, and screaming. I never could have imagined seeing my mother so horrified at me―but now, I'll never forget it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was eventually ruled an accident, but not before an agonizing slew of interrogations and accusations that I'd undone her safety bars on purpose, that I'd intentionally thrown her out at the top and pulled her back in. But I swear that it was him. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it was real, that monsters are real, and that he is one. I don't care if I sound insane. I swear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I swear something else. If I ever see him again, I hope he's still got a bite mark from me. And I hope someday I'll be able to get his heart to match.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Statement ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, that was more graphic than usual. I… </span>
  <em>
    <span>(huff) </span>
  </em>
  <span>no, I'm fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This Lagoon place sounds familiar. I think we had another statement about it a while back. Not one that's gone on tape―not yet, anyway―but there's not a lot else to keep oneself occupied, you know? I read one just by myself a couple months ago about a tall teenager with dark blonde hair―he was an employee at the place, though, not a guest. He undid somebody's seatbelt right before the rollercoaster took off and then buckled it at the end so they were stuck until it took off again. Over and over and over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl rings a bell, too, but I can't quite…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I should ask John to check this place out while he's still over there? No, wait, that won't work. I think Utah's on the whole other side of the country from where he is now. I always forget just how huge America is. Like, enormously huge. Prime real estate for whatever it is out there feeding off the fear of heights and open spaces and...all that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm not really gonna put much effort into researching this, honestly. I'm just trying to distract myself from missing him. I mean, from just wondering what might be happening to him. It's not really working. I'm―I'm sure he's fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(squeaking slightly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>He's fine! He'll be back soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(sigh) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yeah, this isn't working. I'm gonna go find Melanie and Basira. Reconsider that invitation for drinks.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. S3: Jump</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Neal Petersen. Regarding his friendship with Michael Crew, and his servitude of fear. Recorded direct from subject,   July 20th 2017.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG113, before MAG116. Warnings: physical violence (incl. SFX), gun violence (incl. SFX), claustrophobia, body horror, darkness, monsters, being chased, heights, agoraphobia, nihilism, insignificance/diminution, existentialism, explicit language, hostage situation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Hm?</p>
<h5>[A DOOR OPENS; STERN, HEAVY FOOTSTEPS APPROACH, ACCOMPANIED BY LABORED BREATHING]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Ah―Daisy, it’s―it’s a little late for you to be coming in.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Yeah. Anyone else here?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Um―no, I was just about to lock up for the night while I finish some―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Good.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Wh―ghk!</p>
<h5>[SLAM OF THE ARCHIVIST’S BODY AGAINST A WALL, WITH A PARTICULARLY NASTY THUNK WHEN HIS HEAD HITS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Who did you tell?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I-I d―I don’t know wh―agh! <em>(strained) </em>I don’t know what you’re talking about!</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>That monster we buried. Who did you tell about it?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>No one! N―I, I mean, I’m―hgk―I’m sure Elias kn-knows, but―hrgh―<em>(even more strained) </em>hard t―hard to talk with your hand s-so tight round my throat―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I was just almost killed by a teenage freak saying it was for Mike Crew, and when I asked if Elias sent him, he didn’t know who I meant. Meaning <em>you</em> must have told somebody else about it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>You were almost killed by a teenager?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em>(growling) </em>Not human. Stronger and faster and...tall.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Did you get him?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Hm.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>D-did―did you kill him?</p>
<h5>[CLOTHING RUSTLES; TWO SOFT THUMPS OF FEET BACK ON THE GROUND. THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS BREATHING AGAIN.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>No. But I got him in the boot of my car. So if you didn’t spill your guts, you’re gonna help me interrogate him, and find out who did.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I swear to you I didn’t say anything.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Out, then. Back lot.</p>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<hr/>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Is...is that his leg?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Jesus Christ.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Looks like you’re gonna need a new tail light.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Shut it.</p>
<h5>[KEYS JANGLE; TRUNK POPS OPEN]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Oh. Uh, howdy.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>What do you think you’re doing?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Well, I learned the trick from a John Mulaney bit, but then it, uh. Got stuck.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em>(unimpressed) </em>Mm-hm. Stay stuck. Recognize him, Sims?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Not―I mean, I’ve definitely never met him in person. Might know him by reputation, though. He matches a description given in a couple statements. <em>(to Neal)</em> I don’t suppose you’d have a penchant for amusement parks?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Oh, yeah. Big time.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>In particular, using the attractions to torment, torture, and kill people.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em>(audible shit-eating grin) </em>Neal A. Petersen, disciple of the Vast, at your service.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Who told you about Mike Crew?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>I don’t have to tell you anything.</p>
<h4>ARCHIVIST</h4><p>Who told you?</p>
<h5>[NEAL GIVES A SLIGHT GRUNT OF PAIN, ATTEMPTING TO RESIST]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>My older sister. Sibling. Lev Petersen. They know things. Mike and I were one of those, y’know, ‘my work friend accidentally turned into my real friend’ deals, even though we generally hang out on opposite sides of the world. I felt like hanging out with him just for the heck of it a few days ago―maybe he could take me up to the London Eye or something, mess with people there.</p><p>But when I told Lev about my plan to come over here, they told me Mike Crew was dead. Got shot in the head a couple weeks ago by a rosy-cheeked golden-haired daisy-scarred copper.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>And how did they know that?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>I literally just said. They know things. They probably won’t tell anyone else.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Certainly won’t if I put a bullet through their head.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Don’t―</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em> (scoffs) </em>Good luck with that, pal.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Lev Petersen―they were with you at Lagoon, where you killed Darian Mathis, weren’t they? Th-they’re short, dyed blonde hair, blue eyes?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Oh yeah, you know things too, huh?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>No, th―are they the missionary?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Another statement celebrity?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Yeah. When they’re not hanging out with me, Lev likes to do the missionary gimmick to pick people out and scare them. They’re so vanilla about it, though. Always says it’s all, like, justice and stuff, instead of just choosing whoever’s nearest or most vulnerable or most <em> fun. </em></p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Gertrude thought Sister Petersen was worth leaving alive. They’re… they’ve got power, but they don’t use it maliciously. They’re not quite a monster.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Whether or not Gertrude Robinson’s opinion means anything, they sound like a liability. And this one is nothing but a monster. So―</p>
<h5>[GUN COCKS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em> (panicked) </em>Ah, ah, if you shoot me right here you’ll get a hole in your car!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Don’t, Daisy, not―I’m not done interrogating. H-hang on. The Mathis statement was in 2005. How do you still look like a teenager?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em> (Sighing) </em>Y’know, as much as I would love to answer that, my leg is still stuck in a tail light and my back is crunchin’ like popcorn curling up in this trunk, so can we maybe go inside and you can just take an official statement or something? I promise I won’t run away. You can keep the gun to my head if it makes you feel better. If you can reach my head standing up.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>A good amount of chest wounds will kill you just as well.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Fine! Point it at my chest, then! I just wanna get my leg free and straighten my back out!</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Don’t. Run.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>I. Won’t.</p><p>...</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Come on.</p>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<hr/>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement of Neal Peter―</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Geez, this is a good chair. </p>
<h5>[LOUD, RELIEVED STRETCHING AND SIGHING]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Woof. Never underestimate the power of a good chair after being shoved in a trunk for like an hour.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Are you done?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Y...y-e-e―</p>
<h5>[HE GRUNTS AND MOANS, STRETCHING FURTHER, TO THE SOUND OF BONES SNAPPING AND CRACKLING AND POPPING]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>O-oh―oh God―</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>―yes. <em> (breathlessly satisfied) </em>Good chair. Good stretch.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Please never do that again.</p>
<h5>[NEAL LAUGHS, ROLLING LOW IN HIS THROAT AND GETTING LOWER]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>What’s the matter? Weirded out? Think my cracky bones are scaaaary?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Just―you’re here to give a statement. Or I turn you back over to Daisy.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em> (Quieter; cowed by the threat.) </em>I get it. I’m done.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement of Neal Petersen. Regarding his friendship with Michael Crew, and his servitude of fear.</p><p>Statement begins.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>Y’know, as much as I want to say 'it was a dark and stormy night,' it was actually remarkably clear the night I first touched the supernatural. The moon was waning, just two or three nights left before it'd be new, so it didn't give off as much light that night as the stars did. My dad had brought us up into the mountains to go camping for the weekend, just the family. Dad, Mom, me, Lev, our other brother Mars, and two younger siblings who...if I’m being honest, I can’t remember much about. They got left behind.</p><p>We had two tents: one for the parents and the little kids, one for the big kids. I wanted to be included with the big kids, even though there was a four year difference between me and Mars, and only a year and a half between him and Lev. They protested and whined, I whined louder, I won.</p><p>But as soon as the night got dark, I regretted it. Every snapping twig under an animal’s foot, I was sure was a monster coming to get me. Every whistle of the wind was a banshee trying to spook me. Every shadow of a tree branch ghosting through the thin fabric roof was a long-fingered claw ready to grab me. I tried turning to my siblings for comfort, but they shoved me away in their sleep―so I impulsively took my chances to throw off my sleeping bag and run for my parents. Unfortunately, outside the tent was worse than in. I stepped out onto the thorn-littered dirt and froze, paralyzed by every inky shape I swore I saw moving toward me between the trees.</p><p>Then one of the shapes really did move. A figure, big as a bear but almost shaped like a man, with thick arms swinging loose at its sides. At first it was just shifting in the shade, slowly swaying from side to side, those arms limp and heavy. Then it stopped, and crouched, and I saw the moonlight glint on its huge black eyes and curling teeth, and I heard it growl.</p><p>Its jaw snapped once and I instantly unfroze, tearing my feet from the ground. I bolted and burst into my parents’ tent and screamed and cried until they pulled me into their arms, and they reassured me it wasn’t real until I fell asleep. I managed to keep my head on for the rest of the trip―but I knew what I’d seen. I knew it was real. And I knew it was coming for me.</p><p>I think the reason I hit it off with Mike so well is because we almost had the same story. For the next few years I saw that shadow every time I went outside at night―coming in from a long vacation, taking out the dog, bringing our trash can back from the curb. And every summer we’d take camping trips, and every summer I was convinced it’d be my last. My family never believed me or even really sympathized, just told me to be brave or to be fast or, 'Just sing a hymn at the top of your lungs and you won't get scared! Demons can't get you while you're thinking about Jesus!' And when that didn't work 'Sing something fun or stupid, then! Demons can't get you while you're thinking about Kesha!' And I tried. I got really great at singing, actually, especially belting. But the shadow was still always there, in the corner of my eye, just waiting for me to be a second too slow in bolting up the porch stairs and slamming the door behind me.</p><p>Unlike Mike, though, I didn't have to search for Leitners to find another entity to protect me. I didn't really even have to test 'em out and see which god I liked best. The Vast was picked out for me and dropped right in my lap.</p><p>Lev had just come back from a trip to London, and they told me that if I embraced this horror of emptiness and vertigo and plummeting through nothing forever until you're obliterated on impact, I'd never be scared of anything again. There were strings attached, sure, and it wouldn't be an easy road. But I'd already agreed. So after a few months of studying and preparing, they took me back up that same mountain for my...initiation. </p><p>The sky was even clearer than it'd been that night eight years ago, and the moon was nowhere to be seen. Lev led me to a clearing and stood back, and told me to go forward into the trees, and to not turn back for anything. I didn’t want to do it. I knew that as soon as I stepped into the trees, the shadow would be after me. It might even be in front of me, just waiting for me to be alone. But if I hesitated, I’d be back at square one―back to being left behind, that scared little baby, excluded from the big kids.</p><p>I ran. I ran faster than I ever had and as soon as I was in the trees I heard the shadow running after me. It panted growled and it snapped through branches. Out of the corner of my eye I could see it sprinting beside me, so I bolted even faster, determined to let it fall behind me. Suddenly the trees ended and I burst out into the starlight, but I didn’t stop running. I looked back and saw the shadow clearly, its teeth bare and huge, its arms flinging toward me and getting closer. I looked forward again and saw the ground giving way, the edge of a cliff fast approaching, nothing after it but the distant valley and the infinite sky. My options were to be eaten, or to jump.</p><p>The ground disappeared from under me and I rocketed upward. The shadow tried to skid to a stop at the edge, but tumbled over, and fell to its death.</p><p>Lev took us over to the Grand Canyon on the way back, to celebrate my success. For a little bit we just hung out at the visitors’ center, until I noticed a tour bus about to drive a few rich people around the rim. I was feeling a little spontaneous, a little daring, so I went ahead and hijacked it and cruised right over the edge. Man, their screams as they realized what was happening were epic. It was a long fall anyway, but I made it feel even longer―made sure they were feeling as much stomach-dropping terror as possible. I climbed out the window and watched right as it hit the ground and exploded into wreckage and gore. That thrill of adrenaline, and that knowledge that I was strong enough to kill without taking any damage myself―it changed me. I’ve never been scared of the dark since.</p><p>What I realized pretty soon after that, though, was that Lev didn’t do any of this to save me from the shadow. They didn’t even want to bless me with these powers as a present. They wanted to use me, for a ritual.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>A ritual? L-like the Unknowing?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Pardon?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>T-to end the world. Or...remake it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Lev said it was to save the world.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>They were trying to <em> stop </em> the Unknowing?</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Probably? I guess? I didn't really pay attention that far. Didn’t care what it was gonna do, just care what it <em> did. </em></p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>Most people get scared enough of how big and intimidating the sky and the ocean and space all are. But have you ever stopped to realize just how large the scope of <em> time </em> is? People talk about eternal life like it's some great epic reward, but when you really think about it's just huge and it's horrifying. It is such an insanely long time. The big bang was thirteen point eight billion years ago. Doesn’t sound like that much, until you consider that planet Earth has existed for less than a third of that, and that life took another billion years after that to start, and that <em> humans </em> have only been around for a couple hundred thousand years. A couple hundred thousand out of <em> billions </em>―a fraction of a fraction of a fraction. And out of that―you, yourself. You’re, like, in your fifties, right? You think you’re old.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Erm―</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>You’re not old, Archivist. You’re not even young, either―you’re not anything. You’re a few decades out of ten thousand out of a dozen hundred thousand million out of <em> eternity</em>. A speck of a speck of a speck of a speck. You’re nothing.</p><p>Lev’s ritual called on every ounce of strength and fear we had in us, and at the crucial moment, it exploded<em> . </em> In that one split second, in that one minuscule moment, as all that power flowed through us, the entire expanse of history was open to me. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months―years, decades, centuries, <em> millennia, eons, </em>all of it! All I had to do...was pick a destination.</p><p>This is a <em> very </em> rhetorical question, but―ever considered going to 1776? Because let me tell you, it is a <em> field trip. </em> I witnessed a lot of events, and...caused a lot of events. Never enough to go full butterfly effect, but enough to keep myself entertained. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since―keeping myself entertained, jumping around time whenever I felt like it, totally awesome and totally immortal and totally freaking people out. I never age. I never get tired. And if what Lev said about brain growth is true, I’m never even gonna feel older. I’ve been a teenager for, I think...six hundred years now, collectively? And I will be forever. </p><p>And forever is so much longer than you can imagine.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>…</p><p>Unless Daisy kills you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p><em> (clicks tongue) </em>Hrm. She’s probably right outside the door, i’n’t she?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I...I don't think she'd kill you inside the Institute.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Hm. Alright. Your call.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>What's―</p>
<h5>[LIGHT SLAP OF A GRABBY HAND]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Hey! Wh―whoa!</p>
<h5>[CHAIRS SCRAPE. HEAVY, SCRAMBLING FOOTSTEPS, FOLLOWED BY THE DOOR FLINGING OPEN]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (A few yards away) </em> Don't you move!</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Hostage! I got a hostage!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Don't―!</p>
<h5>[GUNSHOT]</h5>
<h5>[ARCHIVIST SCREAMS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Where's the nearest elevator?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>R-r-right, turn right!</p>
<h5>[ANOTHER GUNSHOT, ANOTHER YELP FROM THE ARCHIVIST. DAISY'S RUNNING FOOTSTEPS GROW CLOSER. OVERLAPPING, AN ELEVATOR BINGS AND THE DOORS SLIDE OPEN]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>In, in, in, in―</p>
<h5>[RAPID CLICKING AS ELEVATOR BUTTON IS MASHED]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Close door close door close door!</p>
<h5>[DAISY ROARS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>OH MY GOD―</p>
<h5>[DOORS SHUT A SPLIT SECOND BEFORE DAISY SLAMS INTO THEM. METAL CREAKS AND STRAINS. THEN, ABRUPTLY, SILENCE BUT FOR THE HUM OF THE ELEVATOR AND THE ARCHIVIST'S HYPERVENTILATING.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>What's closer to the windows up top, the elevator or the stairs?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I d―I don't remember. I haven't been up here much since transferring to the Archives.</p>
<h5>[ELEVATOR BINGS AND CONTINUES GOING UP]</h5>
<h5>[AWKWARD SILENCE]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Did you get to meet Mike much? Before she―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>He, um...once. We had one conversation.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Yeah? How was he?</p>
<h5>[ELEVATOR BINGS AND CONTINUES GOING UP]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Polite, I suppose. Offered to make me tea. Then... showed me what falling off a building feels like.</p>
<h5>[NEAL LAUGHS THAT SINKING GIGGLE. ELEVATOR BINGS A FINAL TIME. DOORS SLIDE OPEN]</h5>
<h5>[ANOTHER DOOR SLAMS OPEN. DAISY SNARLS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Window!</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em>Don't move!</em> <em>Don't you―</em></p>
<h5>[SCUFFLING FEET AND SOUNDS OF STRUGGLE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Shit!</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Laters! YEET!</p>
<h5>[BREAKING GLASS. WIND RUSHES IN FROM OUTSIDE. DAISY GROWLS IN DETERMINED FRUSTRATION, THEN GOES QUIET.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I can't see him. Where did he go?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (Still panting) </em> Might not be a where. Might be a when.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (Very pissed) </em> Fuck off!</p>
<h5>[GLASS SCRAPES AND CRUNCHES]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Daisy, you won't find him.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>You don't know what I can and can't find.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Elias needs you here. W-we― </p>
<h5>[HE SWALLOWS HIS BREATH AND SPEAKS LOW, ALMOST SOFTLY.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>We need you here.</p>
<h5>[A LONG PAUSE. GLASS CRUNCHES, AND A FEW SHARDS CLINK TO THE FLOOR. DAISY'S FOOTSTEPS COME BACK ACROSS THE ROOM.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I ever see him again, I won't hesitate.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>...I know.</p>
<h5>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. S4: Home Invader</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute. Reviewing statement number 0141009. Statement of Marshall Petersen, initially recorded September 10th, 2014, by...hm. Gerard Keay.<br/>(Archivist's Note: also indirectly contains statement of Adelard Dekker, regarding 664 West Eighth Avenue, Oshkosh, Wisconsin.)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG149, before MAG154. Warnings: explicit language, food, insects, rodents, dead animal, unsanitary (bugs/vermin in food), blood, self-harm, mental illness (depression/anxiety), body dysphoria, bad self image, transphobia mention, body horror, scratching, gore, dermatillomania, physical violence, isolation, imprisonment</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute. Reviewing statement number 0141009. Statement of Marshall Petersen, initially recorded September 10th, 2014, by...hm. Gerard Keay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay. Recording begins.</span>
</p>
<hr/><h5>
  <span>[EXT. A SMALL-TOWN AMERICAN NEIGHBORHOOD, 2014]</span>
</h5>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS ON. BIRDS CHIRP, INSECTS INNOCENTLY BUZZ; MORE DISTANTLY, CHILDREN ARE PLAYING]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Test. Test.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Works for me, I guess. Head’s still killing me, but at least now I don’t have to struggle through words on paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Um, Gerard Keay recording, date September 10th two thousand fourteen, location...664 West Eighth Avenue, Oshkosh, Wisconsin, United States. Gertrude sent me to investigate this house while she talks to some sources downtown at the local haunted opera house. Her friend Dekker was attacked here last year, and apparently she wants me to finish whatever business he abandoned. I don’t know if this place is really something important or if she just wanted to keep me busy for a while. She could’ve just left me at the motel, honestly, and let me try to sleep off this damn headache, but I guess I’m―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>―wasting tape. Right. Going in.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[DOOR CREAKS OPEN. GERRY’S MEANDERING FOOTSTEPS CLACK AS HE TALKS―HE’S PROBABLY WEARING SOME VERY COOL SHOES.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Front door comes into a little...coatroom area, I’m assuming. There’s a sliding door into the living room.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[SLIDING DOOR SLIDES. WE HEAR A SOFT DRIPPING SOUND.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Ah. That’d be the blood. Seeps from the ceiling, pools on the floor, trails down the wall with dried streaks smeared and scraped off in all different directions―check, check, check. I see the scabs, too, but there’s not nearly as many as they made it seem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s more scabs here on the stairs. Bigger, too. More little dried blood spots up across these walls.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[ANOTHER DOOR CREAKS OPEN, LOUDER AND LONGER THAN THE FIRST. GERRY EXHALES, STEADYING HIMSELF]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>‘Kay.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[SOFT WOOD CRACKS AND MOANS THROUGHOUT, ACCOMPANIED BY RASPY BREATHING. GERRY’S BREATHING IS A LITTLE LOUDER NOW, TOO, BUT THESE OTHER BREATHS ARE POINTEDLY NOT HUMAN.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(hesitant but soothing, like approaching a wild animal) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hey. Can you hear me?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>You don’t belong here.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I’m not here to hurt you.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah, you say that, but most parasites don’t really ever intend to hurt. Insects and infections and bacteria, they don’t come in thinking, ‘I’m gonna deliberately cause this person pain.’ They don’t think anything. They just invade and spread and violate everything that you’ve worked so hard to make your own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t your house. You’re not welcome here. So you can leave now, or I can scratch you out.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>What’s that supposed to mean?</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[WOOD CRACKS AND CREAKS AND SPLINTERS, RAPIDLY GETTING LOUDER AND CLOSER, THREATENINGLY]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Oh. O-kayy. Okay, shit, shit, shit―</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</span>
</h5>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS ON. WE HEAR THE BIRDS AND THE INSECTS FROM BEFORE, BUT THE CHILDREN ARE QUIET.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Gerard Keay recording still, back outside in front of this house. Whatever is in that attic doesn’t want company and I do not want to go back to it unarmed. Or at least, unprepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have a copy of Dekker’s letter with me. Doubt I’d be able to read it right now, anyway―I think all that running made my headache worse. I can...I can summarize it, though. What I can remember of it, anyway.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[HE TAKES IN A DEEP BREATH. THE FAINTEST WHIFF OF ARCHIVIST’S STATIC STARTS TO BUILD.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>It started out with the berries. In the spring of 2012, the American produce industry got into a lot of trouble because so many of the raspberries and blueberries and things that got sold were ending up full of bugs, no matter how much they were cleaned and sorted before shipping out. First farmer’s markets and roadside stands, then small businesses, then major grocers. And as the sellers got bigger, the problems did as well―physically bigger. First people were finding ants and little spiders, the occasional beetle. Then they found crickets, moths, worms―somehow never by sight in the bag or bowl, but only once it was in the hand. On the spoon. In the mouth. Finally, in June, a woman in Idaho dared to make a raspberry pudding, and bit into a dead and naked shrew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Farms started dousing their berries in stronger and stronger pesticides and pushed their workers harder and harder, not caring about any ethical arguments raised against them―just wanting to destroy the vermin. It worked, but at a cost. That’s what got Dekker interested. The chemicals seeping into the fruit ended up making them completely inedible, mutating them―man’s involvement destroying nature’s bounty irreparably. They didn’t get poisonous, but they still made people sick. Because you’d pick up a big, fat, bug-free raspberry, and take a little bite, and taste raw meat, and the slick red juice that’d run down your fingers would be blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow Dekker traced the source of the issue to this house―a little home in a small town with raspberry bushes on either side of the front porch steps, berries that tasted like flesh even though they’d never been touched by industrial agriculture’s chemicals. For the past seven or eight years it’d been owned by the family that planted the bushes, and when they moved out is when the trouble started. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thing is, the new owners of this house―a childless young husband and wife―had troubles of their own. They were finding scabs and other little patches of dried skin or blood all around the house. At first they blamed maybe mice or rats, and called an exterminator. But it soon became clear this discarded flesh was human. And it was getting worse. They started seeing bigger, fresher scraps. Then the attic started bleeding, and―well, I already described that bit when I saw it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The husband took it upon himself to investigate, and up in that unfinished attic, he must have met the same thing I did. A young man sitting slumped in the middle of the room, his skin almost completely shredded, replaced by countless bleeding puckers and sores. His limbs seemed melted off his body, the muscle tissue blending in with the bare pink insulation around him. In patches on his face and shoulders, bone showed through, decayed and brown and splintered like wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Downstairs the wife heard a scream. She ran up to try and help, but when she saw the thing in the center of the attic, and saw the rafters curling in like massive sharp fingers to tear her husband apart, she bolted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Dekker’s mission wasn’t to search through a lead, but to eliminate a danger. Extinction or not, this house had directly killed someone, and maybe burning it down would stop the sickly famine as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost in perfect timing with the first splash of petrol hitting the grass, Dekker was knocked off his feet. When his attacker let him stand, Dekker saw a tall teenage boy and a short young woman, both with blue eyes and dark blonde hair―though the girl’s looked dyed. The boy took the petrol can Dekker had dropped and flung it away; Dekker remarked that he didn’t see where it landed, then that it’s likely it never landed at all. The girl was running into the house. Dekker scrambled up to try to follow her, but the boy shoved him down again, saying, “Just hold tight ‘til we get our boy out. Then you can arson as much as you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dekker struggled and tried to fight back, but found that although the boy was directly holding him down, Dekker could never quite reach any part of him to strike back at. But then after a few minutes, the boy just let him go. The woman came back and took the boy by the arm, and looked Dekker straight in the eye, and under her gaze he felt a burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our brother is in there, and he won’t hurt anyone else if you just let him be,” she said. “We have no quarrel with you. Go in peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s like a bee,” said the boy. “More scared of you than you are of him. Just don’t swat at him and he won’t sting you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could tell the girl was holding back as she stared into him. Physically holding back her brother, but also restraining her own desire to lash out at him. Just standing there, the two of them radiated fear, inexplicable and unquantifiable. They were powerful. But they were choosing not to use a fraction of that against him. “We’re not evil,” the girl said, “we’re just trying to look after our own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that encounter, farmers and grocers found their crops suddenly thriving again, like there’d been no strangeness at all. Dekker closed his letter with a combined request and warning: that this house and these siblings be left alone. The harm they were doing was not worth your life.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE STATIC FADES OUT. GERRY EXHALES. STATEMENT ENDS.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>So I guess I’m safe as long as I’m not trying to kill this bloke. Not really keen on admitting to Gertrude I’ve come back empty-handed, though. Which means I’ve got to find a way to get the information she wants without getting Monster House-d.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm. S’pose it could look cool to dual-wield two tape recorders. Wonder if that’d work.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</span>
</h5>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS ON, IMMEDIATELY CATCHING THAT SAME LOUD, MENACING CREAKING AND SPLINTERING]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>You―don’t―belong―here―</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah, scratch this, mate.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[ANOTHER, SLIGHTLY QUIETER TAPE RECORDER CLICKS, AND ITS SOUND IS SLIGHTLY TINNY AND DISTORTED:]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE (RECORDED)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Tell me your story.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE CREAKING AND SPLINTERING RECEDES. THE ARCHIVIST’S STATIC RISES.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(haha! success!) </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s something, isn’t it? Th-that’s the voice of Gertrude Robinson. That’s the voice of the Archivist. And she’s not here, but it’s just her voice that really matters, right?</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[QUIET TAPE RECORDER CLICKS, AND PLAYS THE EXACT SAME SOUNDBITE AGAIN]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERTRUDE (RECORDED)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Tell me your story.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[QUIET TAPE CLICKS OFF. MARS BREATHES OUT A GROWL.]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Go on. You can start with your name if that’s easiest.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[STATIC BUILDS]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Do I have to?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>S’pose not.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(goading) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do I need to play the clip again?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Don’t.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I meant it when I said people who come into this house are like parasites. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>home, and nobody else has a justified claim to it, and nobody else is welcome. I was born just a few miles from here, same as half my family. This was the longest and most permanent home we ever had. Almost all my childhood memories are here. All my childhood friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wouldn’t say I wasn’t a happy kid, but depression was able to get ahold of me pretty quick. When we moved away from here and left everything behind, my mental health started taking a downward turn that wouldn’t let up for years, depression and anxiety and loneliness and insecurity. It didn’t help that I was about to start middle school at the time―er, what’s the British version? Secondary school?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I know what middle school is.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Then you know it’s the point where kids start learning how to hate themselves. Especially how to hate their bodies. I had plenty of reasons to feel opposed to this flesh―I felt doughy pale, too overweight, unbearably dysphoric. But as I got older, that hate became less societal and more practical. Maintaining an organic body is so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>work. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Keeping it clean, keeping it healthy―dealing with everything from viruses and bacteria to simple, infuriating functions like acne and sweat and hormones and allergies. I hated having to share this body with millions of tiny living things that weren't me, weren’t under my control―constantly trashing the place and rarely paying rent and not caring how I thought things should go even though I was the owner. I should not have to work so hard and suffer so much just to feel some semblance of authority over my own body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tried working at it, exercising some authority. Things like weight and dysphoria had socially acceptable fixes, more or less. I tried following my mom’s diets and getting-active schemes; I went on testosterone and tried to schedule top surgery―but though our parents had opened up a little since Levi's coming out and were willing to accept my transition, most of the rest of society wasn't so easily persuaded. There was difficulty and resistance and frustration; I left my church, lost some friends. Still, it was a solution, and it was possible. But the deeper issues didn’t have a solution except to rip off my skin altogether, tear out all the invaders and become a skeleton or an android and finally be free. Become something not disgustingly inviting and thoroughly infested with</span>
  <em>
    <span> other things. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So I did the next best thing―I picked. I scratched at the slightest blemishes until they were gaping scabs and then I tore off those scabs incessantly. It was nice, sometimes, in a more directly sensory way―the light zap of pain, the satisfaction of successfully pulling the blemish off. Watching and feeling that thick, cold, dark deep red as it beads and trembles and drips slowly down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The closest friend that I had during all this―sometimes the only friend―was my older sibling. I’m pretty sure Levi is what they’re going by now. They were the only other person I’ve ever told this―I told them almost everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halfway through their first year of college, Levi had what I guess was a nervous breakdown and disappeared off the face of the planet. Before they vanished they made sure to let us know they weren’t dead or kidnapped or anything, but then we lost contact with them completely. Eight months later, completely out of the blue, they sent me a text message: ‘I found a way for you to take all your skin off and not die.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first I thought it was a joke. That’s the kind of person Levi was―even after literally eight months of complete radio silence from them, they wanted to break the ice with a joke. So I texted back, ‘Lol, what is it?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The response was more serious than I’d ever seen from them. ‘Do not tell anyone. I’m texting Neal, too’―our younger brother―‘but nobody else can know about this. Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>tell Mom and Dad or anyone that you heard from me. There’s something I need to do, and I need your help, and if you want, it could give you the power to do whatever you want with your body. Probably a lot more power than that, too. But it’ll be scary. And it’ll be difficult. And there’s no going back from it.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the next few months Neal and I met up with Levi in secret, most often in the middle of the night, going off to dozens of different places with a motorcycle and sidecar I assume Levi must have stolen. Under their instruction we read strange books, lit candles and chanted songs, fasted and purged, spilled blood into circles of salt and ash. They never told us all the details, but whatever we were doing, it worked. Neal was able to climb higher and higher roofs and plummet to the ground without breaking a bone. Levi would sit completely still without blinking for almost an hour at a time, eyes glowing, and then answer impossible questions. I could reach into my skin and bone and reshape it like papier mache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In October it came to its peak. We had to fully realize all our new powers and perform a bigger, stronger ritual than any of the ones before, and if it failed―</span>
</p><p>
  <span>―this happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I woke up alone in this attic. I sat up, but realized I couldn’t move further. My body was woven together with my old home, and I could feel every invader. Squirrels tapping across the roof. Mice nesting in the walls. Spiders and centipedes and termites and earwigs crawling through every inch of me. Humans, scraping on my foundation, knocking out my walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For fourteen years I have been trapped here, more a prisoner of my own flesh than I have ever been, and I can’t not feel it </span>
  <em>
    <span>all. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And the worst part is―I’ve felt myself here. When Levi’s ritual burst apart, it sent me back to the day I was born, and I have felt the invasion of my own childhood self throughout my veins. My family never saw me. The rare occasions they came into this nasty attic, I could blend entirely into the floor and the walls, invisible. They never knew I was suffering here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they were my family. They were me. So I let them stay. After I left, nobody else was welcome. I’d killed before to get these powers. I’d run out of qualms with killing again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, finally, last year I saw Levi again, here to save me. They swore they would’ve come sooner, but couldn’t risk interacting with their own past self. We had to leave fast―I was in danger, and Neal was holding the attacker off for now, but they didn’t know how long that’d last. But I still couldn’t move. Levi hesitated to touch me. If they would’ve reached out and grabbed me, I don’t know if they would be strong enough to tear me out from the house’s grip―but they didn’t even try. Didn’t want to get all my blood and pus and oil on their skin. They didn’t say so out loud, but they didn’t have to. So instead they just promised they’d find a way to fix this. And in the meantime, they wouldn’t let anybody else try to hurt me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I haven’t seen them since. Since then it’s been just me. Just me, with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>things, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>invaders. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And with Levi’s stubborn protection, I don’t think that’s ever gonna stop.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[STATIC FADES]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Anything else you wanted from me?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Your name, I guess, if you have one.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Mars. Marshall Petersen.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>What was the deal with the raspberries?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Hm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a kid I accidentally ate a couple ants off the bushes out front, and then Levi got a beetle in her Jell-O, and it turned me off raspberries from then on. Those creatures were not willingly invited into our mouths. Guess I just wanted to spread that trauma. It wasn’t, like, an intentional decision on my part―just some power leaking out subconsciously. I stopped it once I knew about it.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(out of patience, tiredly sarcastic)</span>
  </em>
  <span> Well, that’s very courteous of you.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARS</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Are you going to leave me alone now?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>GERRY</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Heh. As alone as you can be.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</span>
</h5>
<hr/><h5>
  <span>[INT. THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, PRESENT DAY]</span>
</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Hmm. Felt like two statements for the price of one―the thing’s story and Dekker’s letter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(sigh)</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m starting to think Peter’s just throwing anything that mentions Adelard Dekker at me and expecting it to be useful. Yet another ‘he thought it might be Extinction but turns out it was someone else’―though I’m not quite sure if this one’s supposed to be Corruption or...Flesh. Could be both, I guess. I don’t know what the deal with the siblings was, though―I recognize them, but I'm not sure if they matter to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s kind of ironic. If the Vast is the opposite of the Buried, Stranger opposite Eye, the Corruption must be the opposite of the Lonely. Back when Jane Prentiss attacked and I was stuck in my flat, I wasn’t able to get much human interaction, but there was so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> around me, a whole colony squirming and living and―and invading. Too many creatures in my space. And now I’ve gone from being surrounded by living things and nobody noticing I’m in trouble, to everyone seeming worried about me when I’m surrounded by absolutely nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swarm to solitude. A thousand to zero. First to last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As terrible as everything is now, I definitely don’t think I’d want to trade this for that. Maybe that just a sign that The One Alone has its hooks in me already. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(chuckling at the tape recorder, almost fondly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>You still recording, eh? There’s nothing interesting in just me thinking out loud. Hope John doesn’t listen to this and think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> everyone to worry about me. That I want...that I want him to worry about me. Peter’s bound to get on my case anyway, tell me I’m getting too personal, sharing too many feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not feelings, though. Not anymore. Just observations.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(no longer fond) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh, turn off, will you?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. S4: Narcissus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Sister Leven Elisha Petersen, regarding a love story.  Original statement given March 18th, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG155, before MAG158. Warnings: religious abuse, self-hate, mental illness, depression, homophobia, internalized homophobia, eye trauma, unhealthy romantic dynamics, unhealthy sibling dynamics, violence, death of LGTBQ+ character, paranoia, suicide, compulsion, being trapped, isolation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>[INT. MAGNUS INSTITUTE, ARCHIVES, JOHN’S OFFICE]</h5>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement of Sister Leven Elisha Petersen, regarding a love story.  Original statement given March 18th, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>I’m sorry for any confusion or stress I may be causing right now. You’re all a little scattered right now, but I managed to snag Sasha in the middle of her moving offices around, and she was gracious enough to sit me down so I could write my statement. I wanted to get to you as soon as I could without facing Gertrude.</p><p>Chances are you’ll be reading this long, long after I write it, and chances are you’ll have read lots about me before hearing from me directly. Either way, that information is surely piecemeal, and a summary is always helpful.</p><p>My first name, currently, is Leven. It's not the name I was given by my parents, nor the only name I've chosen. I don't mind just Sister Petersen, and I don’t mind being called ‘she,’ though I'm not quite technically a woman. Not in the monster sense like Nikola or the Distortion―just in the regular human sense of being nonbinary and gender weirdness. I am still human, John. That's a choice I've made and I'm done philosophizing about it. I am a thoroughly human being, and I am a willing and powerful servant of the Ceaseless Watcher, and those are not mutually exclusive concepts.</p><p>I was born in the middle of February 1999 near Salt Lake City, Utah. I was almost a normal child, all things considered. I spent most of my school years in the gifted and talented program because of how fast I learned to read and write, and how much I did of both. I soaked up all the information I could get my hands on, and once I had it, I folded it up inside my brain and shaped it into something new, something all my own. That hungry questing for knowledge was certainly what set me up to claim the Eye―but I think it’s also what started me on the path to be susceptible to the Lonely. I had friends, but I was always set apart from them. I grew up being taught that I was smarter than my peers, more creative, more mature. It made me distant. Made it harder for me to really care about them. The only one I could ever truly know and understand and love, and be known and loved by in return, was myself.</p><p>I tried, of course, out of a sort of moral sense. I wanted to be a good person, so I acted as kind and as loving as I could. I put on a good show. I truly held affection for a lot of people, but never really believed it was as pure as I wanted. That same vulnerability followed me to church. Oh, I tried so hard to be a good little Mormon girl. I memorized the songs and the scriptures and the lessons, and since everyone told me I was so good at it, I absorbed it so deep. I knew all God's commandments, and I trusted them without question. Somehow this didn't change right when I realized I was <em> different </em>―that I'd never be able to achieve that perfect family model we prized so highly. </p><p>When I came out to my mother, she told me to lock my heart. Better to never love at all than to love in a way God didn’t like. So I did. Locked it willingly and perfectly. I was a young queer teenage girl who could never have a happy, fulfilling marriage with a happy, priestly husband, but I still thought that if I followed God’s plan, this church had a place for me. I was so sure of it that I staked my life on attending a university owned by the church. I even tried dating boys while I was there.</p><p>Soon enough, though, it became clear that things with my half-attempted boyfriend were not going to work out. I decided that it was not only because I didn't like men, but because I'd never be able to really like anyone. I had set myself up for solitude my entire life, and was so deep in denial about it that when the truth became undeniable, it shattered me. I was so perfect, though―I couldn't seek counseling or help or friendship; I couldn't let my family know there was something wrong with me. My only option was to disappear; and I was completely ready for it to be by suicide. But salvation came, in the form of the Tundra.</p><p>It was the perfect getaway―I’d always loved boats and the sea, and was desperate for work that’d keep my body busy without needing much brainpower. And I was the perfect victim. I had no real friends or community, and a rapidly deteriorating connection to my family. In fact, I had called my mother as soon as the semester ended―as soon as I learned my emotional breakdown had destroyed my grades, and I’d entirely failed both terms―and I told her I needed to disappear for a while, that I didn’t want to be found, and that I would eventually come back good as new. Then I hung up, and spent all my savings on buses and trains and Lyfts to the northeastern coast. Peter Lukas caught me in a quiet, foggy Maine pub, where I slowly sipped a glass of water because I was still too indoctrinated and afraid to try alcohol, and he snapped me up like a lobster.</p><p>I was his last catch before he left to fully take over the Institute. And, ironically, it was aboard the Tundra that my love story began, in a way. Because it was there that I met Naomi Herne. Thirty-three months had passed since she lost her fiance, Evan Lukas, and nearly been thrown into an eternity of grave isolation; two years since she gave you her statement. For two years she had relived that grief and that terror and that loneliness, all under your careful watch. It had turned Evan’s saving love to poison in her throat. She had grown to hate him for rescuing her with his voice, for keeping her alive to suffer and not letting her die alone then and there. She’d grown to hate you for your callous dismissal and your disaffected observation. She’d grown to hate everyone around her so much that Peter had made her acting captain of the Tundra in his absence.</p><p>She tried to avoid me; I tried not to bother her. But I’ve always had a knack for drawing people to me―whether I want to or not. As much as I put myself above them, lonely and needy people would always pull to me, and tell me all their secret fears and sadnesses. And out of my best attempts at compassion, I would listen. And so it was with Naomi.</p><p>We didn’t fall in love. I think she was far too wrapped up in her hatred for that, and I too wrapped up in myself. But we were attracted to each other. The only girls on the ship, almost the only English speakers, definitely the ones with the least sailing experience. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you she was beautiful, too―that dark hair with those pale green eyes. So we watched each other, and we talked; and when we knew the rest of the crew wouldn’t notice, we tangled together in her bunk, clutching and clawing for the touch of another human’s body like we hadn’t felt it in eons.</p><p>Over time, I learned her every secret. And though she’d never officially joined the Lukas family, they were more than happy to accept her honorarily when they learned of her conversion―so I learned every one of their secrets. And thereby, I learned every one of your secrets.</p><p>Naomi gave me a choice. Join their worship of the Forsaken, or be sacrificed on its altar. But now I knew that as seductive as the Lonely was for me...it was a false idol. <em> My </em>one true God was the Eye.</p><p>The night I discovered the purpose and plan of your Institute was the night I began my ordination. The Tundra was nearing port in England, and in Naomi’s bunk in the wee hours of the morning, I split her secrets open under my burning azure gaze and I scooped out every iota of her identity. I entered London with bloodstained hands, the address of the Magnus Institute in my mind, and Naomi Herne’s pale green eyes in my suitcase.</p><p>I needn’t have bothered coming to the Institute. I couldn’t get in. There were wards put up, keeping me out. I still don’t know if they were set by Gertrude trying to keep herself safe, or by Elias trying to protect his plans. Because at that moment, I was very much actively working against you all.</p><p>I know you’re not religious, John, but how much have you studied of different theologies? It’s interesting to me to analyze how worship of the Dread Powers mirrors how people worship a more traditional God. Your Elias Bouchard’s style is very Christian, specifically very Protestant, specifically almost Calvinist. He sees the Eye as his close personal benefactor, and believes that when its great rapture comes, it will annihilate all but a few predetermined servants. The best way to survive, according to him, is to follow God’s commandments to the letter and be its perfect prophet.</p><p>Historically, Mormonism has been lumped in with Protestantism, but the more I study the more I prefer aligning my Church closer with Judaism. Jewish tradition also believes in a single God with a chosen people―but Israel does not mean to follow God meekly, but to <em> wrestle </em>with God, to see the plan you’re given and decide for yourself if it’s right or wrong. I knew the Eye was real, and I knew that we had chosen each other, and I knew that I wanted to serve it and that I was grateful for its blessings―and I decided it was wrong. My heart may be locked to any human who could ever get close, but from a distance I am in love with humanity. I love to watch their triumphs, their dances, their quiet smiles; I love seeing the love of others and lengths they’ll go for it; I hate to see my people in pain. Letting innocent humans suffer is wrong, no matter the pleasure our prophets drink from it, no matter the power it gives us. Sometimes fighting that means defying the leaders we’ve trusted to be God’s mouthpiece. Sometimes it means defying God itself.</p><p>Sabotaging your prophet’s efforts would be futile, so I switched to a more proactive plan, one that it turned out everyone else had already come up with first. Figure out my own ritual and finish it first. But this one would be specific, a counter-ritual designed not to change the world in my own way but to oppose any other changes. The other part that made my ritual unique was that I was going to take Smirke’s ideas of balance, and enlist the help of other powers. Not all of them―I was far too low on time to search for that many assistants. But I managed to sort them into three main categories: fears that reside inside the mind, fears for the body, and fear of your environment. If I could just get one of each of those, I figured I had a shot.</p><p>And what sealed the deal was, in my attempts to invade the Institute, the discovery of case 8561910―great-uncle Lars Pedersen. Fear was in our blood.</p><p>So I returned to America, and recruited my brothers. Marshall’s insecurities were easy prey―I gave him the Flesh, domain of the body. Neal was a little trickier, but when I saw him in person for the first time in almost a year and saw how he reveled in now towering over his big sibling, making me feel small, I knew he would love the Vast. Domain of the environment. And I’d already claimed domain of the mind with my servitude of Beholding’s paranoia. It took months of study and terror and sacrifice to gain the power we needed. But the good thing about being the perfect eldest child in a family is that Mars and Neal already idolized me, and were willing to do whatever I said. That dedication made us powerful.</p><p>In the middle of October, I brought us to our culmination. Weeks of focus and ceremony came to a climax in the center of the Great Salt Lake, that oasis of bitterness and death that our ancestors had made their Zion decades ago. We floated above the water, fingernails digging into each other’s palms, surrounded by this history of violence and heresy and escape, by blood, by expanse, and by light. And in the exact moment that our god, mine and yours, pierced the sky―we shoved them back.</p><p>In that moment, I lost touch of all my senses, sight and sound and feeling obliterated by blinding flame. When I found them again, I was alone, standing outside of a hospital, and the night was dark and cold and rainy. I tried to step forward, but found myself frozen to the spot. The door opened, and out came a young husband and wife, with their newborn. I watched them. I recognized them. It was the middle of February, 1999, and they were my parents, and the baby in their arms was me. I stared at them as they shuffled past me, unseeing, and my immobilization became that of a puppet on strings. I picked up my feet, and I followed them.</p><p>I followed my infant self home, and watched through the windows of my parents’ little apartment, unable to go anywhere or do anything else. The ritual had failed. <em> I </em>had failed. And as punishment for my blasphemy, I was now forced to watch myself, to stand by―hour after day after week after year―as every horrible thing in my life unfolded, a voyeur made masochist. Every scraped knee and every sick day burned fresh, but I could stand that. But watching this child stumble and thrash, so pathetic and self-centered―if I could bring myself to do anything but stare, I’m sure I would have wrung my own throat. As it was, I watched myself struggle and make so many mistakes, and I seethed with rage and regret. All my abstract self-loathing now had a focus―a target. </p><p>But it's funny how emotions that strong will become all tangled, one passion indistinguishable from another; self-loathing is, after all, still more self-obsession. In the midst of all the hate, I was still the only person I could ever truly love.</p><p>I watched myself come out and discover who I was. I watched myself leave home, watched my tired mind drift away. I watched myself suffer and I watched myself break free. I watched myself commit atrocities in the name of a greater good that I had failed. I watched myself pull my brothers into the same nightmare. I watched my ritual begin. And I watched it collapse. And then I found myself back at the start again, my watching complete. And this time, I could move. And I still had my power.</p><p>This is my seventh loop through life, and it’s nearing the end. I’ve spent the last century and a half cycling through history and using what I have to do what good I can, bringing down little tyrants and protecting those who need it. Robin Christiansen, Ri Suddala, Hailie Mathis―all wiser and safer and stronger thanks to my eyes. I don’t condone what Neal’s been doing with this same longevity, but...I love him too much to stay away from him too long. And he and I are going to find a way to set Mars free from that house. I swore it then and I swear it now.</p><p>I made it into the Archives on my last loop, watched you all for a while, but I decided to wait til now to give my statement. Seven is the number of perfection, after all. Maybe this really will be the end. If it is...I’ll be sad to tell myself goodbye.</p><p>Give Sasha my thanks, again. Go a little easier on Martin. And say hi to Tim for me, special, if you can. I always had a soft spot for him.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Statement ends.</p><p>Not the loose end I was really expecting to ever get tied up, especially now, but I suppose it's kind of Sister Petersen to give us such a tidy package of it. I just wish we could have found it sooner.</p><p>I suppose I could...leave flowers, for Tim, on their behalf. Not that there's―well.</p><p>There wasn't enough left of him to bury, after the House of Wax was destroyed. No grave I could leave flowers on. Basira said they sent his ashes to his parents. Maybe I could bring them something for him. Maybe...maybe I could even convince Martin to come with me.</p><p>No. That's not what matters about this statement, not what matters about the fact that I'm reading it now. What matters is that whatever Elias is planning―whatever he's doing...if they couldn't stop it, even with all their power, all their resources, and the complete knowledge of what was going on, what point do I have in even trying? In even theorizing or―or even worrying? Whatever it is, it's inevitable.</p><p>Maybe I'd be better off accepting it. Maybe we'd all be better off if I just...go along with it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Is that really the takeaway you got from that?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Wh―Daisy, I forgot you were―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>This sister just spent the whole statement criticizing that kind of mind. If you're gonna learn anything from this, it's to take the Jewish approach.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I―I'm not Jewish.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Are you Calvinist?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>No.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Then take a leaf out of my book. If your God's got a plan for you and you don't like it, you fight back.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>But they failed. They tried, and they ended up suffering and being punished without really saving anything.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Maybe they just didn't have the right support. Seems to me those brothers weren't quite all on the same page. But we got Melanie to stop slaughtering, and me to stop hunting, and you to stop stealing statements out of people...we all resist together.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>What, save the world with the power of friendship? Sounds a bit trite for your taste.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Can't hurt.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (tiredly </em>) It does hurt, though. We both know it does.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>...</p><p>Fine. Forget it, then.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Th―Daisy, I'm not trying to say that what you're doing―that those efforts aren't worth it. That's not what I think. I―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>It's what Basira thinks.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (desperately defensive; be nice to me!) </em>I just don't know what the right thing to do is. How to...how to stay human, how to feel like myself, while at the same time staying alive, hurting the least amount of people I can―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I said, forget it.</p>
<h5>[FOOTSTEPS CROSSING THE ROOM. DOORKNOB JIGGLES BRIEFLY, BUT STOPS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>...</p><p>I'm sorry.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Yeah.</p>
<h5>[THE DOOR OPENS AND SHARPLY CLOSES.]</h5>
<h5>[LONG PAUSE. THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS.]</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>She may be right about something. If the point of the ritual was to fight against the Eye’s plan, it would have had to require full conviction against them―and the youngest brother here seems to enjoy feeding his patron far too much. Whether he simply lacked concentration or if he actively sabotaged the attempt, he could very much be blamed for its failure.</p><p>There’s...something else, though. I think…</p><p>They each chose one fear to serve, but there’s traces of another on each of them as well. Sister Petersen chose the Eye, but was marked by the Lonely as well―and there’s definite tints of the Desolation in the burning they spread, the gas fire irises. Marshall was the Flesh, but the effects in his statement are much more closely aligned with the Corruption. Neal took the Vast, but...he tracked Daisy down, picked a fight with her, and held his own. There’s Hunt in him. And each of these powers, claimed unknowingly―they tainted the ritual. Like sticking their fingers in the jam and soiling it.</p><p>That must…</p>
<h5>[STATIC RISES]</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>That might be what Peter Lukas is trying to do with Martin.</p><p>If I could just―</p>
<h5>[STATIC BUILDS FURTHER, RISING IN BOTH VOLUME AND PITCH, ACCOMPANIED BY SOUNDS OF EFFORT FROM THE ARCHIVIST]</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (strained, agonized, like there’s a scream pressing just behind his throat and he’s desperately choking it back) </em>―come on―</p>
<h5>[STATIC LAYERS AND GROWS, ALMOST THE SAME AS IN “CHOSEN,” BUT WITH A DENSER, MORE FOCUSED QUALITY. HIS SOUNDS OF EFFORT GROW AS WELL, BECOMING HIGHER AND TIGHTER, BUT STILL HOLDING BACK.]</h5><h5>[THE SOUND BROADENS, NO LONGER FOCUSED, PEAKING WITH A COUNTERMELODY OF LUKAS’S STATIC. THE ARCHIVIST GASPS AND GROANS EVEN HIGHER, ALMOST WHIMPERING.]</h5><h5>[THE SCREAM BREAKS. THE ARCHIVIST HURRIEDLY CUTS IT OFF INTO A GASP. STATIC QUICKLY FADES.]</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (breathing heavy) </em>No. No good.</p>
<h5>[HE TRIES IN VAIN TO SWALLOW BACK HIS PANTING]</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>God. You’d think I’d have a higher pain tolerance by now.</p>
<h5>[THE ARCHIVIST EXHALES; A SOUND THAT MIGHT BE A SIGH, MIGHT BE A SOB.]</h5><h5>[TAPE CLICKS OFF]</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. S4: The Saint</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>'Who’d you kill to get those eyes?'</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG155, before MAG158. Warnings: religious abuse, abusive mentorship, transphobia, child neglect/infant death mention, depression, self-harm (cutting), suicide, guilt/shame manipulation, eye horror (incl SFX), eye trauma, throat trauma, blades, argument, explicit language, privacy invasion, compulsion, unhealthy relationships</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>[INT. A CHURCH LOBBY, LONDON]</h5>
<h5>[AN OUTSIDE DOOR SHUTS; FOOTSTEPS ON CARPET. A LOW MALE VOICE IS SPEAKING OVER A P.A. SYSTEM, THE WORDS INDISTINCT.]</h5>
<h5>[A HEAVY INSIDE DOOR OPENS AND SHUTS, AND THE VOICE BECOMES CLEARER OVER THE SOFT RUSTLING OF A CONGREGATION. FOOTSTEPS STOP.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MAN</b>
</h4><p>―of Thy holy Son, even Jesus Christ, amen.</p>
<h4>
  <b>CONGREGATION</b>
</h4><p>Amen.</p>
<h5>[AFTER A SHORT BEAT, AN ORGAN BEGINS PLAYING, JUST LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD OVER THE SOUND OF BENCHES CREAKING AND PAPERS FLUTTERING AS THE CONGREGATION GRADUALLY SHUFFLES TO THEIR FEET. PEOPLE BEGIN MILLING ABOUT AND CHATTERING.]</h5>
<h5>[TAPE RECORDER RUSTLES AGAINST FABRIC, AS IF BEING PULLED OUT OF A POCKET.]</h5><h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (whispered) </em>I see you.</p>
<h5>[SEVERAL FEET AWAY, A SOFT, HIGH-PITCHED VOICE LIGHTLY CHUCKLES.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>I see you, too, Sister Tonner.</p>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<hr/><h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h5>[A SMALLER, QUIETER ROOM. JUST THE BACKGROUND HUM OF A HEATER AND THE LIGHT SQUEAK OF COUCH SPRINGS.]</h5><h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Right. How’s this going to work, then?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>I assumed you were gonna tell me. <em> You </em> found me.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>You weren’t hard to find. You’re lingering nearby. The only thing that could have made this difficult is the fact that your eyes are hazel right now.</p><p>Whose are they?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>They haven’t picked a name yet. But they will soon. They’ll know exactly who they are and what their place is in this life.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>How long til yours go back to blue?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Usually just until they wake up and find that theirs are blue, too. It’s nice to have the little bit of variety for a couple hours, though.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>You wanted me to find you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>I wanted to talk with you. I thought I might be able to help. But...at the same time, I know that’s not why you wanted to find me.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Hm. Your creepy brother around?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>...Yes. </p><p><em> (calmly) </em>Are you here to kill us?</p>
<h5>[LONG PAUSE]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Culminate the hunt?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Who’d you kill to get those eyes?</p>
<h5>[SISTER PETERSEN BREATHES DEEP: INHALES, EXHALES.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>I don’t travel with the intention of killing. I don’t seek out villains. I seek out people who need my help, who I can save. There is a child in this building, twelve years old, alone and afraid and confused. They don’t feel right in the Young Men’s group. They don’t belong with the other boys and their crew cuts and white shirts. But somehow, growing their hair long and trading white for blue wouldn’t make it better. It goes deeper than that. They don’t feel like they deserve the Priesthood that’s just been given them. They’re too young for that kind of responsibility, and their little sister is so jealous that they only get it because they’re a boy. Their parents try to explain it. Boys can do some things girls can’t, but girls can do some things boys can’t, doesn’t that seem fair?</p><p>It isn’t fair. This child can’t articulate why at first, but they don’t like it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (dryly) </em>Maybe because it’s sexist.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Maybe.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>I met them earlier this week, at a youth activity, and I spoke with them, and I listened to them. I told them, maybe if you don’t feel right doing ‘boy things’, maybe if you don’t fit in with the other boys, maybe if you’d rather be anything else―maybe that’s what you are. That’s possible. In fact, it’s fantastic. In fact, I know <em> exactly </em>how you feel.</p><p>But no, the child said, they couldn’t possibly do anything about it. They’d already talked to Brother Recksiek about it, the first counselor of the bishopric. Last Sunday, they dared to come to church wearing trousers a little tighter than usual, and a flowery barrette borrowed from their sister, and a brand-new pink paisley tie they’d bought with their own money just the day before. Their parents didn’t say anything about it, but the boys and the elders gave the child sideways looks, and after class Brother Recksiek pulled them aside. He talked about modesty, and giving off an image of a respectful son of God. He said the child didn’t need to dress like this to get attention; and he said they <em> shouldn’t </em>dress like this, because it drew too much attention.</p><p>But it’s like when you leave a newborn to cry and cry without getting out of bed to soothe it. People tell you the baby’s just trying to manipulate you into giving it attention it doesn’t need or deserve. They tell you to ignore it, or you’ll spoil it. And one of these nights, you shove the pillows over your ears, and you curse your own infant for that horrible crime of wanting attention, and when you get up the next morning the baby’s dead. </p><p>What’s so sinful about needing to be seen? Why are we damned for wanting somebody to tell us we’re alright?</p><p>Before Sacrament Meeting this morning, I pulled Brother Recksiek aside, into a meeting room where we could close the door and talk in private. I asked if what the child had said about him was true. He laughed and said yes, said “pity that kid, his parents just let him do anything.” I asked if he was proud of what he’d said. Brother Recksiek’s laugh faded into confusion, but he still said yes. And so I scooted my folding chair up a little closer, and I looked at him.</p>
<h5>[STATIC BUILDS, UNDERSCORING A SUDDEN HIGH-PITCHED SQUELCHING―A HUNDRED TINY EYES EMERGING THROUGH SKIN. EVERY SO OFTEN ONE OF THEM BLINKS WITH A SMALL, WET NOISE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>Everyone has something they’ve done that they’re ashamed of. Some bury it. Some deny it. Some ignore it and let it fester, tiny and stinking, behind walls and walls of thick smug justification. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m better now. It doesn’t matter what I did, I’ve learned from my mistakes and repented, nobody was really hurt in the long run.”</p><p>People like those, I just have to look a little harder, stare a little longer. Brother Recksiek tipped his chair over and fled back against the wall when I opened my eyes, but he couldn’t break contact as I sifted through his mind. </p><p>Brother Recksiek was a convert―raised loosely Catholic, baptized in his twenties. Teens in the ward trust him because he has a tattoo on his neck and stories of a wild youth. He's proof you don't have to be perfect to fit in with the Church. Nobody is beyond the reach of the Atonement. All your shames can be washed clean. So they go to him with their doubts, thinking his experience will let him comfort them. And when they do, he knows how they feel. And he knows how to twist the knife―how to make them feel worse. He abandoned all his habits to feel superior here, he went through all that guilt, that refiner's fire; why not pass on the lesson? Why not pummel these children into the same mold he's so proud of himself for fitting? Tough love, right?</p><p>He was frozen to the wall, knees buckled and collapsed on the floor, when I asked him to tell me about Ben Gailey. He blurted it out readily: Ben had been sixteen years old and came to him to confess his struggles with self-harm, and Brother Recksiek told him his body was a gift from God and harming it was inexcusable. He told him God was disappointed that Ben was letting his depression be stronger than his faith. He didn't think Ben would take it so hard. Hard enough to take his own life less than a week later.</p><p>I opened my eyes wider and I showed Brother Recksiek exactly what he'd done. I showed him Ben's shaking and sobbing in a dark bedroom as his wet red forearms stained his sheets, and Brother Recksiek heard his own voice rattling in Ben's head. God was disappointed in him. God couldn't even look at him. He was such a failure, such a weak, pathetic, ungrateful excuse for a priest. He didn't deserve to be called a priest. He didn't even deserve to be called a Latter-day Saint―and more and more excoriations screamed through his brain, and they wouldn't stop, they'd never stop, no matter how hard he tried to pray, both Ben and Brother Recksiek in past and present chorusing―</p><p>It doesn't stop until Ben brings the razor to his throat, and Brother Recksiek feels every second of his death.</p><p>Brother Recksiek cried as he looked back at me. Couldn't I see that that's what he was trying to save this poor kid from? First the boy shows up in a barrette, next he'll be mutilating himself for this delusion, and then inevitable suicide.</p><p>That kid, I told him, is going to live a long and beautiful life. They're the opposite of a disappointment. They are actively sharing in God's work of creating themself. They are more perfect and divine than you ever could have been. And they're going to be so much better off without you.</p><p>He shook his head, and he asked me what I am. I asked him what he thought I was.</p><p>After that, Brother Recksiek didn't waste any time. He had a stylish old-school letter opener in the top drawer of his desk. I stepped back as he tore it across his face, ripping through both eyes in one defiant and feral movement. Before his muscles completely gave out from the pain, he managed to slash the blade one last time, toward his neck. An eye for an eye; a throat for a throat.</p><p>I walked out of the office, and ruffled the hair of the hazel-eyed child, who'd been waiting outside for a meeting that Brother Recksiek wasn't going to be able to make now. The child looked into each and every one of my eyes, and took off running for home.</p><p>Brother Recksiek's body won't be discovered til...just now.</p>
<h5>[A SHORT, MUFFLED, VERY DISTANT SCREAM.]</h5>
<h5>[SEVERAL EYES BLINK ALMOST IN RHYTHM.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (tightly) </em>Put those away before I punch them off you.</p>
<h5>[STATIC FADES. MORE SQUELCHING, BUT QUIETER, AS THE EYES RETREAT. BRIEF BEAT OF SILENCE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Does that help you understand a little better?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Yeah. I understand that you’re a bloody hypocrite.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Ow.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>You said the Eye’s wrong but you’re still scaring people for it. And you keep attacking the leaders of <em> this </em>church but you never just leave it yourself.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>The leaders aren’t what makes this church worth leaving or staying in. </p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Seems like it. They’re the ones calling the shots, making the rules, interpreting everything the way they want. And all I need is to listen to things <em> you’ve </em>said to know it’s hurting people. So why do you keep wearing that name tag?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Same reason you keep coming back to Basira.</p>
<h5>[DAISY’S BREATH CATCHES IN WHAT MIGHT BE A SCOFF OR A SNARL.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>That’s <em> not </em>the same, and that’s none of your business.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>You deserve better than her.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Nah, no, no, you’re not pulling me in like that. I’m not one of your sad stories to listen to.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>It’s true―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Don’t fucking touch me.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>…</p><p>I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I just...I know how it feels to define yourself by one thing or one person, and to feel like you have to choose between them. I don’t like a lot of what my Church does or has done in the past, and I’m willing to fight against that; but I <em> love </em>God, and I know They love me. I know this is the closest I can possibly be to Them. Serving the Church. Feeding the Eye.</p><p>You can’t leave Basira because you love her. You don’t know who you’d be without her, without that role you’ve given yourself as her protector. You’ve built your whole identity around the Hunt, that role of killing the bad guys and saving the girl. But now you’re trying to change that. And I am so, <em> so </em>proud of you for that. You’re so much braver than me.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Not as comforting a thought as you’d think.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p><em> (ruefully) </em>Trust me. I know.</p><p>I do what I can with the power I have. I know I should leave. But I won’t risk giving up the ability to change things for everyone else. To fight back, to help and save people and make things better. I won’t...I can’t sacrifice that. And if that makes me a monster, then I will accept your judgment. But my judgment is this: that acting out of love and desire to lessen suffering is better than the alternative, no matter the outcome. No matter who you’re doing it for.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>…</p><p>What’s Elias planning? What were you trying to stop?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Knowing won’t change it, Alice. </p>
<h5>[COUCH SHIFTS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>I’m so, so sorry, but it―</p>
<h5>[MOVEMENT. A SWITCHBLADE SNAPS OPEN. PETERSEN INHALES SHARPLY.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I said don’t touch me.</p>
<h5>[PETERSEN EXHALES, HESITANTLY.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>What number loop are you on now?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Seven.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>So you said you think it’s the end for you anyway.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>...If it’s possible for me to die anymore, it would be now.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>And then what?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>I’ll meet Christ. I’ll face what I’ve done wrong. I’ll pay my dues. I’ll wait for however long it takes for my last saving ordinances to be done, by whatever family I have left. And then I’ll be raised from the grave on the morning of the first resurrection, clothed with loveliness and poised for eternity.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>After all you’ve done, you still think you’re going to heaven?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Most everyone is, if they’re willing to accept it and work for it. Forgiven as many as seventy times seven.</p><p><em> (quietly, almost shakily) </em> That doesn’t...that doesn’t mean I <em> want </em>to die, though. But. It’s not up to me now.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I <em> should </em> kill you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Your call.</p>
<h5>[PAUSE. COUCH SQUEAKS. BLADE SNAPS SHUT.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Get out of London and don’t come back. Pray you don’t get namedropped in any more statements.</p>
<h5>[A KNOCK ON THE DOOR. THE DOOR OPENS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FOLLOWING LINE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Lill-ieee, hurry up and finish your m―ohhhhh, fudge.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>It’s chill, dude. We’re finished.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>Murder cop.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>It’s <em> chill.  </em></p>
<h5>[KEYS JANGLE]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Go rev up the bike for me. I’ll be right out.</p>
<h4>
  <b>NEAL</b>
</h4><p>A’iight...</p>
<h5>[DOOR SHUTS]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Did you bring the tape recorder on purpose? For the Archivist?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Something like that. </p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4><p>Hm. Be careful with it. It was hard enough to get in and write down my original statement―who knows how the Institute would react to my voice.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (sardonically) </em>I’ll keep that in mind.</p>
<hr/><h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h5>[TAPE CLICKS ON, PICKING UP THE BACKGROUND NOISE OF A BUSY CITY STREET, LATER.]</h5>
<h5>[DAISY HUFFS IN FRUSTRATION.]</h5>
<h5>[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]</h5>
<hr/><h5>[TAPE CLICKS ON, LATER.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>I’m not giving it to him. It’s none of his―</p>
<h5>[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]</h5>
<hr/><h5>[TAPE CLICKS ON, LATER. INT. THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, ARCHIVES, JOHN’S OFFICE.]</h5>
<h5>[HEAVY FOOTSTEPS FROM OUTSIDE. DOOR OPENS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Here.</p>
<h5>[PLASTIC CLACKS AND SLIDES AGAINST WOOD: A CASSETTE TAPE IS TOSSED ONTO A DESK.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>What’s this?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>A tape.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Well, yeah, obviously, but―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Don’t―listen to it. Please. Don’t listen to it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>...Why?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (strained) </em>I don’t. Want. You to―hear it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Right. I...I won’t.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Promise me.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I’ll try, Daisy. I’ll―I’ll put it away somewhere where it won’t―</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Or don’t promise. Not if it’ll be a lie.</p>
<h5>[THE ARCHIVIST TAPS HIS FINGERS ON THE TAPE, THEN TAPS THE TAPE AGAINST THE DESK.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>You were compelled to bring it to me, weren’t you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>If you do listen, don’t tell me about it. And don’t...blame me if it explodes or something. She said it might be dangerous.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Oh. Right.</p><p>Why are you wearing a tie?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Coming from church. </p>
<h5>[ZIPPY RUSTLING OF SATIN-LIKE FABRIC AS SHE REMOVES THE NECKTIE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Thanks for the reminder. Been dying to take it off.</p>
<h5>[A FEW FOOTSTEPS START TO RETREAT, THEN PAUSE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Got a question for you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>Erm...you do?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Why did you choose this?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>I...don’t quite know what you mean.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>You told me everyone gets a choice. So why’d you choose all this?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p><em> (matter-of-fact) </em>Because the alternative was death.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>...Do you love the Eye?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>No, that’s―that’s not what love is, that’s not how―</p><p>Why?</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Just call it revenge if you want. You answer my questions for once.</p><p>What <em> do </em> you love?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>God, I don’t know. I love, um...cats. Petting a good cat. Smell of old books, smell of rain sometimes. Uh, Neil Gaiman. Ursula LeGuin. The fact that you’ve finally agreed to listen to <em> In Our Time </em> with me to turn our brains back on after <em> The Archers. </em></p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p><em> (scoffing, smiling) </em>Turn your brain on, maybe. Puts me to sleep.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>You stayed awake through the Iliad episode the other day.</p>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>Blame Basira for that. She spent a while fixated on Achilles and Patroclus, taught me all about them.</p>
<h5>[HER VOICE TRAILS OFF. SHE LIGHTLY TICKS HER TONGUE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>DAISY</b>
</h4><p>No. I don’t know why I asked. Sorry.</p><p>I’m gonna go toss out this stupid tie.</p>
<h5>[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. S5: The Hermit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Considerations on self-isolation. Recorded by the Archivist, in Situ.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG170, before MAG171. Warnings: bugs, vermin (mice), abandonment, isolation, unhealthy sibling dynamics, self-hatred, suicidal ideation, violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><h5>
  <span>[EXT. A FRONT YARD, QUIET BUT FOR A SLIGHT WIND AND THE LOW CREAKING OF THE HOUSE BEHIND THEM. MARTIN AND THE ARCHIVIST’S FOOTSTEPS CRUNCH SOFTLY AS IF ON GRASS. AS THEY WALK, THE CREAKING FADES INTO THE DISTANCE, AND EVENTUALLY INTO SILENCE.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>So, was there someone in charge of that house? Some avatar in particular feeding off me?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Why? </span>
  <em>
    <span>(unenthusiastic) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do you want me to smite them?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>No, no, not―I mean. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(steadying breath) </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, because that would mean going back in there. Or...waiting out here while you go back in there, which would probably be even worse. I’m just―I’m angry, now, now that we’re a few steps away from it. I’m cross at whoever-it-is that they put us through that. I don’t want to go back to the Lonely and I don’t like that it tried to manipulate me into...falling into that place again.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE ARCHIVIST HUMS IN AGREEMENT, OR MAYBE JUST ACKNOWLEDGMENT. THEY WALK IN SILENCE FOR A MOMENT, AND THE SOUND OF THE TERRAIN MOVES FROM GRASS TO PAVEMENT.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Is it a Lukas? There must have been more still alive than just Peter. Is it―er, what was it, Mooring Place?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Moorland House.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>No. This house was the home of Marshall Petersen―or at least, a version of it. A winding, time-sick expansion of every place he lived in his life.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>The raspberry guy? In the attic? </span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>The very same.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Wasn't he in, y'know, America?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Is it any surprise that in this world, geography is just as ruined as time?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yeah, but―I mean, Kinloss was still about where it was s’posed to be, and we’re still heading south to get from Scotland to London, right?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>This house was...drawn to you, specifically. You―not intentionally, of course, but―you called it to land on our path.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>How? Why?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>You related to him, didn’t you? His statement made you think of your own life. Your own things that you’ve been through.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(pensively) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I guess that’s fair. Come to think of it, I did also sort of...imagine my younger self in him, when he was talking about his insecurities as a teen. Lots in common there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You listened to that tape, then? Me reviewing it?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Yes. Always a treat to hear from Gerry, I suppose.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[MARTIN’S FOOTSTEPS ABRUPTLY STOP.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(squeaking) Gerry?!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Did you literally just refer to Gerard Keay as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gerry?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(almost laughing) </span>
  </em>
  <span>What, are you gonna be jealous of him, too, now? Are you going to be like this about every man I mention?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Am I? Am I, John? Did you even hear yourself just now? You called him Gerry and you called him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>treat!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE ARCHIVIST LAUGHS OUT LOUD, AND IT IS A FREAKIN’ DELIGHTFUL SOUND.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Do you have a thing for ghosts, is that it? Back in the Institute, when you asked if I’d died there, was that an attempt at flirting?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Oh, come here.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[MARTIN GRUMBLES, BUT ACCEPTS. THEIR CLOTHES RUSTLE AND BAGS JANGLE.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(slightly muffled) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Honestly. I don’t know why I put up with you.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Hmm. Is it because you love me?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>You’re damn lucky I do.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE ARCHIVIST EXHALES CONTENTEDLY]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(softly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yes. I definitely am.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[MORE FABRIC RUSTLING. THEY PULL APART AND RESUME WALKING.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>How did he get...how did he become Lonely? Wasn’t he Corruption?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>The Petersen siblings all had aptitude for multiple different fears. Mars had some power in the Corruption, some in the Flesh. Leven never intended their brothers to ever come close to the Lonely, after they themself were nearly claimed unwillingly. But when th―</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[HE CUTS HIMSELF OFF. HE’D ALMOST BEEN EDGING INTO HIS STATEMENT VOICE, BUT HE STOPS HIMSELF WITH A SHORT BREATH.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Do you want to hear it?</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[FOOTSTEPS SLOW SLIGHTLY.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>I asked, didn’t I?</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THERE IS A BRIEF SILENCE, FOOTSTEPS STOPPING FOR JUST A SECOND BEFORE HESITANTLY CONTINUING. STATIC BUILDS.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>When the ritual collapsed, Mars did not think to feel betrayed, nor abandoned, or even afraid―not at first. All he knew was that a moment ago he held the hands of his siblings, and now he was alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long time he was silent. Didn’t try to speak, or move. He did not need to eat or drink or sleep. He didn’t begin to lose himself just yet―in fact, he walsall too aware of every thought in his mind and every inch of his surroundings. With all the focus he could muster, he began counting every little trespasser he could feel in the house. A colony of three thousand two hundred thirty-six carpenter ants just below him. Seventy-seven carpet beetles in the master bedroom. Eight thousand six hundred forty-one young cockroaches throughout the kitchen, bathroom, basement. Thirty spiders. Nine hundred eighty-three gnats. Zero humans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the third day he was approached by a mouse, one of a nest of fourteen, and he moved. Now, distracted from his count, he was alone with his thoughts. And it sank in: he had been forsaken. And he would remain so the rest of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After four years, people started coming in to prepare the house for selling. An exterminator removed the ants and roaches and most of the mice. Renovators cleaned and realtors toured. At one point a builder came into the attic. Already far too used to his solitude, Mars lashed out when encroached upon. The builder only had time to be disgusted at the sight of him before stakes of diseased wood ripped through his skin. Mars never forgot that recoil of revulsion, even as he learned to hide, determined to never be seen like that again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, a family moved in―his own. At first they all stayed on the floor below him, but eventually his younger self was granted his own room upstairs. His older sibling had their room just across the hall, but still―it was his first time with this much space of his own, and the child reveled in the new independence. By himself, he could do whatever he wanted, without fear of being questioned or told to do something else. And when the solitude got to him―when the tapping of squirrels on the roof sounded like a ghost, or when sad nightmares woke him with a start―his best friend was only a room away, ready to comfort or distract.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he had no comfort, no distraction, no reprieve. He could only think and count and remember, over and over again. His best friend had made a powerful new life without him, then invited him into it, and then deserted him. They had promised reward, and surely reaped it for themself, and left him with only punishment. He should never have agreed to Leven’s scheme. He should have never accepted and followed along. He should have let them stay alone in their faraway life. He should have left himself out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twelve years after his imprisonment began, Mars saw his siblings again. Moments later, they abandoned him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he sat and felt a new nest of mice begin to burrow into him, his mind detached, and turned inward. He did not need to sleep, nor could he, but he was growing so, so tired. He wished for sleep. Closed his eyes and begged for it. Even if he were to dream, he was sure it couldn’t be worse than remembering and knowing and fearing. There was no future in sight where he would be remotely happy. Either he was stuck here forever, or he would be saved, and have to go back to the world. In the world he would be seen, and judged, and perceived; in the world he would have to explain himself and contain himself and work to make a life, and the thought of that was scarier than being trapped. In the world, he took risk of making mistakes worse than this. Mistakes he couldn’t see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leven reappeared after another five years, saying that they were going to get him out now, and nothing was going to stop them. But by then it was too late.  His eyes were closed, and he told them to go away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His siblings might have loved him back then, in the memories he couldn’t stop replaying of this home, but now that love had run stale. Now he was only a loose end for them to tie up; a lost soul to save, just so they wouldn’t feel guilty anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to be saved. He didn’t want their pity. More than that, he didn’t want to endure the toil of learning to be kind again, to exist beside another without tearing out their flesh. He just wanted to rest, somewhere quiet. He wanted to forget all that he’d been through, all that he’d done, all that he’d wanted and all that he regretted―he wanted to be gone. And not only to forget, but to be forgotten in turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment came once more that the sky burned white and the earth rippled with wrongness, with one Marshall Petersen standing on a lake at its center, and the other in the attic alone. The first is sent back. The second stays on. His house is made clean and cold. His invaders become sluggish and die; his skin nearly freezes stiff. The world around him is no longer the street on which he grew up. It is nothing. He is lost. His window, though it’s been frosted over for all eighteen years he’s sat up here, now truly has nothing beyond it but fog. The fog creeps in through cracks and into his mind, until the only thing he remembers with any persistence is the smell of a funeral home, where he used to wait after school for his father to finish work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those memories are a comfort, if only for the sake of nostalgia. But with them always come the reminder that he waited alone, as his siblings two years ahead and four behind all played with their friends. He knows that was a long time ago. But he can’t remember if he ever managed to make his own friends after that. He might have preferred to keep waiting by himself. But he can’t remember. He doesn’t know, and that’s what scares him most.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[FOOTSTEPS STOP, LEADING INTO A MOMENT OF COMPLETE SILENCE BUT FOR THE LOW WIND.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Is he even aware there’s other people getting trapped in his house?</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Before the Change, he could feel every heartbeat and footstep that ever entered those walls. Now he feels nothing at all.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <em>
    <span>(soft half-chuckle) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Rhyme not intended, I assume.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Sorry.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>No, you’ve nothing to apologize for. That’s on me for asking. It’s not your fault the Eye keeps making attempts at poetry.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Mm.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>But I guess that means we have to forgive him, don’t we? If he doesn’t know what he’s doing.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>We never </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to forgive. But in turn, I suppose...we don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be angry. The way we feel isn’t going to change what happened or is going to happen either way.</span>
</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>Hm. In that case, I think I will stay cross. Screw you, Loneliness.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[THE ARCHIVIST AUDIBLY SMILES WITH A SHORT HUM.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4><p>
  <span>We are definitely agreed on that front.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. S5: The Hanged Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lamentation of collateral damage. Recorded by the Archivist, in situ.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG176, before MAG178. Warnings: blood, gore, death, child harm, child death, decapitation, physical violence, acrophobia, religion, guilt, unhealthy friend dynamics, unhealthy sibling dynamics, mild language, argument, undead, people acting uncanny, SFX: screams, injury, repetitive sounds, glitching/distorted audio</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><h5>
  <span>[EXT. AN AMUSEMENT PARK. COASTERS RATTLE AND CLACK, GAMES BEEP AND BING, AND CROWDS OF PEOPLE ARE SHRIEKING ALMOST IN CHORUS WITH EACH OTHER. THEIR SCREAMS ARE DISTANT, THOUGH, HIGH IN THE SKY.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Huh. This looks…</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>What’s this supposed to be?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Lagoon. The amusement park from the―the statements about Neal Petersen. But...it looks exactly the same as it’s supposed to. That’s weird, yeah? Considering?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(pleasantly surprised) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin, did you actually research those statements?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Hey, just because you had your head up your arse about hating me that first little while, doesn’t mean I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad at my job.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Wh―</span>
  <em>
    <span>(how dare) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I did not hate you, I just―may have overcorrected slightly in―</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Oi! </span>
  <em>
    <span>(snaps fingers) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I am not here to be you two’s marriage counselor. What’s the deal with this place?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>This must be Neal Petersen’s domain, yeah? He brought it over here from America?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Who’s that?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>He’s a servant of the Vast who used the fear of eternity to give him the power of...time travel, more or less. He can’t ever go to the future, but he can jump back and back and back whenever he chooses, and live out as long as he likes without ever aging or changing. Daisy and I had a run-in with him a short while before the Unknowing. She must have come here to finish the fight.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Why haven’t I ever heard of him, then?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Ageless or not, I don’t imagine Daisy would be keen to tell you she’s got her sights set on murdering a fourteen-year-old.</span>
</p>
<h5>
  <span>[TURNSTILES TWIST AND CLICK, CREAKING SLIGHTLY, THREE TIMES IN SUCCESSION. THE SOUNDS OF THE PARK GET SLIGHTLY LOUDER AS THEY ENTER IT PROPER.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Seriously, though, this place looks so normal. Besides the lack of workers, I guess...where’s all the fear here?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Most roller coasters are designed to scare you on purpose. It doesn’t take much tweaking to turn that into real, abject terror.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(knowingly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Right, right, sorry I asked. We can get you a minute to spill all that terror out later.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Did she do it? Did she find who she was hunting?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Look to your right.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[SHORT PAUSE, FOLLOWED BY TWO EXCLAMATIONS OF DISGUST―A SMALL ONE FROM BASIRA, AND A LARGE ONE FROM MARTIN. MARTIN’S FEET SHUFFLE ON THE PAVEMENT AS HE RECOILS.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Eughhh, auugh, that’s a head! That is a severed head on the ground!</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like you haven’t seen worse.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>I wasn’t expecting it!</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>So that’s a yes. She found the kid, and she killed him.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>No. That’s Oakley Petersen. Age twelve. He tried to stand between the wolf and her prey.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[UNCOMFORTABLE BEAT. A NEARBY COASTER THUNDERS DOWNWARD WITH A THRONG OF PROLONGED SHRIEKS.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(changing-the-subject) </span>
  </em>
  <span>So there’s a fourth Petersen sibling? Or―was?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>And a fifth, back on Night Street. Nine-year-old Penelope.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>But they were all avatars, yeah? </span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Oakley never even knew about any of this until now. He was completely innocent.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Okay! I get it, okay?</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[MARTIN BLOWS OUT A SHUDDERING BREATH.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Let's just walk past and forget about it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(huffs; speaks under breath) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kid's severed head.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[FOOTSTEPS RESUME. BOUNCY, EXUBERANT ELECTRONIC MUSIC PLAYS FROM ONE OF THE GAMES NEARBY. FOOTSTEPS STOP.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>You two can rest here. I’ll try to be quick.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Sure.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(playful) </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t go on any rides without me.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[A BENCH CREAKS. THE ARCHIVIST’S FOOTSTEPS START UP AGAIN FOR A MOMENT; THE NEARBY MUSIC FADES, AND THE REST OF THE PARK BECOMES LOUDER―THOUGH NOT LOUD ENOUGH TO DROWN OUT THE RISE OF STATIC.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Tomás always said he wasn’t afraid of roller-coasters. He just didn’t like the way they made his stomach feel on steep drops―that sickening, lurching tightness. He didn’t like the headache that came with his neck snapping around on tight corners. He didn’t like the dizziness of watching the ground fall away, or the earth be spun into a blur. That wasn’t the same as being afraid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His best friend, though, is afraid. Tomás can feel it in the thrumming pulse of the hand he holds as they stand in line, a fluttering beneath the skin, almost strong enough to feel like something inside him is trying to break out. Tomás tightens his hand around his friend’s wrist, to reassure him, but also to keep him in place. Tomás was the one who asked him here, after all―what would the rest of the Young Men think if his guest were to run off? They all praised him so highly for managing to invite a nonmember to this important activity. He can’t let him go now. He’ll be fine once the ride is over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how long they’ve been in line, but finally they reach the front, and begin to file into seats. The ride begins in a tunnel, dark and cramped, and Tomás feels his friend’s hand tighten under his own. The attendant doesn’t meet his gaze as the two of them are strapped in, hips pressed close together and waists uncomfortably pinned under the metal restraints. His friend begins shaking and whimpering. But before he can get any words out, the machine jerks into action.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[WE HEAR A LOUD KA-CLUNK OF A ROLLERCOASTER STARTING UP, AND IT BEGINS CLATTERING UP THE SLOPE.]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>The coaster goes up and up and up. Tomás can handle it. At the top, he’ll squeeze his friend’s hand and squeeze his eyes shut and endure for the few minutes the ride will take to end. And then they’ll go get snacks or something, and their leaders and the other Young Men will be so happy with his friend for being so brave, won’t that be nice? And won’t they be so proud of Tomás for bringing him, for letting him have this opportunity?</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[THE COASTER STOPS, THE SOUNDS OF THE REST OF THE PARK INCREDIBLY DISTANT.]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>If his friend receives praise, it’ll be to Tomás’ credit. But if anything bad happens to him, it’ll be Tomás’ fault.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[THE COASTER ROCKETS DOWN, AND THE PASSENGERS SCREAM.]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>His stomach careens just in that way he hates so much, bringing instant tears to his eyes. He shrieks without meaning to, and his ears hurt from the sound of everyone around him doing the same. Then suddenly they’re at the bottom, and they hurtle around a hairpin turn. His shoulders slam into his friend’s, his safety bars cutting into his collarbones. They turn the other way, then another, and another, and up again, never slowing for a moment. He’s still screaming. He should have run out of breath by now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The coaster whips and jitters and rips and swirls on and on and on, rattling his mind and smashing away all chance for thought. If he could form any sort of reason, any line of emotion besides blinding, nauseating fear, he would be weeping. He knew this activity would make him miserable. He had known from the beginning. He knew the pain these rides caused him, and he knew the deep pit of unease and discomfort and shame that came from the jeers of the other boys and the disapproving looks of his leaders. Young Men’s activities always make him miserable. Why did he think inviting his friend would make it better? Why didn’t he realize that it would just hurt them both even more, hurt a friend who never did anything to deserve it?</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[WIND WHISTLES]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>He can’t even see the park from here, only the thin, twisting track and a sky so blue it’s hurting his eyes, each one stretching on and on and out and out and up and up and up, without even a memory of a hope of ending. His friend is gripping his hand hard enough to bruise, hard enough to bend his knuckles together and scrape the bones against each other, as the coaster crests the hill―and finally begins down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The force of the sudden descent is enough to slam Tomás’s head back against his seat. Beside him, over the roaring wind and his own bellowing screams, he hears a </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack―</span>
  </em>
</p><h5>
  <span>[AND SO DO WE―A SHARP, FLESHY BREAKING OF MUSCLE AND BONE.]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>―and the hand on his goes limp. Tomás shrieks a name he barely remembers, the boy who barely knew him, who had no stake in the game and no idea what was coming, who only came along because he was invited. Tomás never meant for this, but all the good intention in the world can’t change that this is all his fault. And the coaster clatters on, up hills and through loops and round corners and into a sky still bright and happy blue, uncaring even as blood soaks his clothing, and stains his wailing mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ride stops. Tomás shoves at his restraints, refusing to be near the broken body of what used to be his best friend any longer, sobbing with relief at the approach of another faceless attendant. The attendant unstraps the friend’s restraints first, and lifts every piece out with tenderness, and hands them to Tomás’ shrugging group leader. The well-poised man dumps the gore into the nearby bin, and gives Tomás a nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What matters is that you invited him,” the man says. “Now, will you be a companion to Hugo? He’s been less active in the ward, and could use some reaching out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Tomás can even move, the attendant straps in another fearful and sunken-eyed boy beside him, another death for whom he will be responsible. And before he can realize how torn his throat has become from screaming, there is a jolt―</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[KA-CLUNK]</span>
</h5>
<p>
  <span>―and the ride begins again.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[THE COASTER STARTS RATTLING UP THE FIRST HILL AGAIN, AND THEN FADES INTO THE DISTANCE.]</span>
</h5><h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><hr/>
<h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5><h5>
  <span>[THE ARCHIVIST’S FOOTSTEPS CRUNCH SLIGHTLY ON THE PAVEMENT AS HE RETURNS TO HIS COMPANIONS. THE GAME MUSIC FROM BEFORE RETURNS TO FOCUS, ALONG WITH THE SOUNDS OF MARTIN AND BASIRA MUTTERING IN ANNOYANCE AT EACH OTHER.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Seriously, what did you expect?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>―absolutely cannot believe this―</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(to John) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I told him not to do it.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>I literally just―! </span>
  <em>
    <span>(angrily rushing) </span>
  </em>
  <span>I wanted to win you a teddy bear, okay?! This is the most normal place we’ve been in </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and all I wanted was to pretend for a second we could be a normal couple and do normal couple things, an―and I just thought it would be cute, and I thought it’d be nice, but then i-i-it just―</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Yes. Hello, Oakley.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>N...no way.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[THE GAME MUSIC BINGS EXTRA HIGH AS IF DIRECTLY IN RESPONSE TO THEM.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Uh. Hi.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[AND OAKLEY’S VOICE IS WEIRD. FOR STARTERS, IT’S A LITTLE DEEPER THAN EXPECTED FOR A 12-YEAR-OLD, AND HE SPEAKS IN A DISAFFECTED MONOTONE. BUT IT’S ALSO STRANGELY RESONATING AS IF THROUGH A COMPUTER; IT ECHOES SLIGHTLY, THE SOUND OF TWO IDENTICAL VOICES SIDE BY SIDE, AND OCCASIONALLY WARPS WITH DIGITAL GLITCHING.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Do you wanna try?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>What are we playing?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>It’s a dart game. I-I―he was standing right next to the target when I threw it, and i-i-it went right through his </span>
  <em>
    <span>(increasingly agitated)</span>
  </em>
  <span> stupid hologram face because we can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> catch a break and literally everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be some spooky bullshit―</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(interrupting) </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s like some sort of computer zombie. His head’s still back where we saw it, but his body’s been wired into the game. Don’t know how Martin didn’t notice the way he’s hanging there.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t cost anything extra. You just get three darts, try to hit the bulls-eye or whatever. More points, better prize.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>What happened to you, Oakley?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Uh. Like, just now? When he th-</span>
  <em>
    <span>th-</span>
  </em>
</p><h5>
  <span>[HIS VOICE GLITCHES AND FOLDS OVER ITSELF IN BRIEF SPURTS.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>―threw the dart through my fa-</span><em><span>fa-</span></em><span>fA-ace? Face?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Before now. We want to know how you got here.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>I...I came here with my brother Neal. He just kinda sh-</span><em><span>sh</span></em><span>-sh</span><em><span>O</span></em><span>wed up in my room out of nowhere and was like, “Hey, what’s your favorite thing to do to freak people out?” And at first I just thought, Lillie thinks my double whistling is creepy, that’s kind of fun.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[HE DEMONSTRATES, WHISTLING A SHORT NOTE THAT SOUNDS LIKE TWO WHISTLERS AT ONCE.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>People think it’s weird, some of the things I can d-</span><em>
    <span>d</span></em><span>O-do. They say I pick things up too fast. They say I shouldn’t be able to know things or figure them out, or that the way I talk is just kind of off. A lot of times they can’t really put their finger on what they think is wrong with me. One time someone even said it must be that my face was too symmetrical. They s-</span><em><span>sAy</span></em><span>-say I look like a faerie or a changeling or something. I’m not, but I think it’s funny when they say I am and get freaked out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Neal said “Cool, we can work with that.” And then we were here, and he was in charge of everything. He told me I could do whatever I want, go around and put people on rides and run games and w-</span><em><span>wha-</span></em><span>whAte</span><em><span>ver, </span></em><span>so long as I scared people while doing it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually this lady came in. She was running, jumping over things, shoving people out of her way. She had blood all over her clothes and her hair. Neal grabbed me and shoved me in front of him and told me not to let her get him. Wh-wHe-</span><em><span>wh-</span></em><span>when he said that, she dropped to all fours and then leapt at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I felt the claws on her hands hitting my chest before her teeth reached my throat. I even f-</span><em><span>fe-</span></em><span>felt the back of my head hit the concrete and felt all the wind leave my lungs. But when she tore out my esophagus, I forgot about feeling anything else. Just that rawest, thickest pain of muscle and bone getting ripped apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then I felt Neal pic-iC-</span><em><span>ick-</span></em><span>pick up my body and set it up here. Cus he knows I like videogames. I don’t know how he got away from her. I guess maybe she was okay with just killing me. Or maybe she’s gonna come back.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[A COUPLE APPROVING TAPS OF A PALM ON OAKLEY’S GAME STAND.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Thank you. And...no, we don’t want to play anything else.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>OAKLEY</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Okay. Bye.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[THREE SETS OF FOOTSTEPS TURN AND RETREAT. THE GAME MUSIC FADES. A COASTER IN THE DISTANCE GOES DOWN A VERY TALL HILL, WITH VERY EXTENDED SCREAMING.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>So...is she going to come back, or are we leaving?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Killing Neal is still on her to-do list. But she has other targets higher in priority at the moment.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>So we’re just following where she came through </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages </span>
  </em>
  <span>ago? Jesus, John, she’ll be miles ahead of us now!</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>We’re not going to lose the trail. But you need to know what she’s doing. What she’s always been doing.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Stop wasting our time. I’m already planning to kill her, alright? You don’t need to convince me.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(quietly) </span>
  </em>
  <span>You scare me sometimes, Basira. I thought you and Daisy were...I mean, you make it sound like you hate her now. Before, I...I honestly thought you loved her.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>What does that matter to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Since when have any of you been anything but scared of her?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Wh―okay, to be fair, she gave us a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be scared of.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>I’ve never been scared of her. Not once.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>You’ve never been on opposite sides.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>We are now. And it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>She was afraid of you, sometimes. Near the end. Afraid you wouldn’t want her without the Hunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’ll be afraid of you again when she finds out you’re coming to kill her.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Thought you said you couldn’t know the future.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>No. But I know her.</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>BASIRA</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Keep telling yourself that.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[BASIRA’S FOOTSTEPS SPEED UP AND PULL AHEAD; MARTIN &amp; THE ARCHIVIST’S LINGER.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Which is it? ...Can you see it in her head?</span>
</p><h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>She’s putting what Daisy asked above everything else her heart is shrieking at her to do. I don’t know what else that could be, besides love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To be honest, I think I’d hope you would do the same for me, if I asked.</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[LONG BEAT.]</span>
</h5><h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>
  <span>Well, let’s never find out. Okay?</span>
</p><h5>
  <span>[CLICK]</span>
</h5>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>check out <a href="https://soundcloud.com/justatoad">oakley's soundcloud!</a> don't let the goofy cover art fool ya, he's made some legit amazingly cool music and its honestly some of my favorite stuff to vibe to, he's super duper talented and has been working really hard at this skill for a long time. he's sad that i decapitated his fake self in this but irl im very very proud of him</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. S5: Judgment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An evaluation of worthiness. Recorded by The Archivist in Situ.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After MAG188, before MAG189. Warnings: religious abuse, scopophobia, privacy invasion, guilt/shame manipulation, blood, character death, suicide (inc assisted)/suicidal ideation, mentions of sacrilege/desecration, second-person point-of-view statement, direct interview questions from the Church handbook</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h5>[THE CITY HUMS AND WHIRS AND FLASHES. STATIC WHIZZES UP SUDDENLY, ALONGSIDE THE BUSTLE OF APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS AND FAINT PANICKED BREATHING.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</b>
</h4>
<p>There is a place in London which must be safe. It has always made Siân feel safe in the past, when she could take the time from her day to make the drive. In the real world the building is away from the city, surrounded by clean-cut grounds and gardens, but she either doesn’t remember or doesn’t care. In the real world that golden angel atop the spire wields a trumpet to the air, not a telescope, but to Siân it is all the same. Whatever has happened to warp the outside, that is the temple, and the inside must be safe. The temple is a house of God, goes the song from her youth―a place of love and beauty. No unclean thing can enter a place so dedicated. Inside she can be safe from the worries of the world and Satan alike.</p>
<p>When she sees it, the relief that shoots into her cuts sharp and clean through the fear, powerful almost to the point of pain. In a fury of hope she beats back the pressing, flashing throng of eyes surrounding her, and she makes a break for the door.</p>
<h5>[AS HE TALKS, THE WORDS ARE ACCOMPANIED BY THE POUND OF RUNNING FEET AND THE CREAK OF HINGES.]</h5>
<p>She runs, not caring about the shock of hard pavement on her weary legs, not caring about the strange man slowly following a few steps behind, not caring about the layer of dust that clouds from the door as she wrenches it open and shoves inside.</p>
<h5>[THE DOOR FORECEFULLY SLAMS , THEN―COMPLETE SILENCE BUT FOR A GENTLE YET STERN <em> ‘SHHHH.’] </em>
</h5>
<p>“Please be still,” whispers the old man at the desk. “This is a place of reverence.”</p>
<p>Siân’s relief mixes with shame as she pushes her mouth shut and wills her pulse to slow. The elder is right. She mustn’t let fear and panic into the house of the Lord. A heart full of fear has no room for faith.</p>
<p>“Can you tell me when the next session is due to start?” she asks him.</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Can you tell me when the next session is due to start?</p>
<h5>[SIÂN SPEAKS OVERLAPPING, VERY NEARLY IN TIME WITH HIM―A FEW WORDS SLIGHTLY AHEAD, A FEW SLIGHTLY BEHIND. HOWEVER, SHE IS NOT SPEAKING *TO* HIM, AND HER VOICE COMES FROM SEVERAL YARDS AWAY.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The elder replies, “Of course; but first, I must see your recommend.” He is white-haired and clean shaven, and his dark blue eyes are clear behind the spectacles and wrinkles―he reminds Siân of her grandfather, and she is happy to do as he asks. Obediently she searches her pockets. She should have her temple recommend on her person; she’s carried it safe and fresh in her wallet since she was twelve,  the most important piece of identification she could ever need.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she says, “it must have gotten lost in the mess outside.”</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (overlapping) </em> I-I’m sorry, it―it must have gotten lost in that...the <em> mess </em>outside―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The elder ticks his tongue in disappointment, and that’s all he needs to do for all Siân’s relief to vanish. But just before her despair peaks, she feels it, in that inside pocket of her coat that she never uses. Forcing herself to smile, she sighs and flourishes that little slip of proof of worthiness, and slides it across the desk to the elder. </p>
<p>It’s out of date.</p>
<p>Her heart sinks. That can’t be so. She always keeps it current, she just had an interview with her bishop a few weeks ago...or was it months? She must’ve―</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>I must’ve―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Must not have made the temple enough of a priority to really make the time for it. Must have let it slip through the cracks in favor of worldly pursuits, job and telly and kids and socializing. But not to worry, sweetheart. I have all the questions we need to interview you right here. </p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>O-of course. Thank you.</p>
<h5>[PAPERS SHUFFLE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Do you have faith in and a testimony of God, the Eternal Father; His Son, Jesus Christ; and the Holy Ghost?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Yes.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Do you have a testimony of the restoration of the gospel?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Y-yes, of course.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Do you sustain the President of The Church, members of the First Presidency, and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as prophets, seers, and revelators?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (finally sounding a bit more calm) </em>I do.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Do you sustain the other General Authorities and local leaders of the Church? Do you follow their instructions and refrain from doubting or criticizing your bishopric? Do you honor their words and their advisement exactly, whenever and wherever they are given?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Um...w-well, I―I don’t totally agree with Bishop Mullins on―<em> (chuckling nervously) </em>politics and things, you know―but that’s…</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The elder frowns. Don’t you know that your bishop is called of God even when not speaking from the pulpit? Would you disagree with Him on politics?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>What? No! No, it’s―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The elder hushes her, and looks down his list, and Siân feels panic build deep in her gut once more. But she <em> must </em>remain calm. Nothing bad can happen to her once she is through those doors. </p>
<p>Let us continue. Do you strive for moral cleanliness in your thoughts and behavior? </p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Yes. Yes, I do my best.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>And do you succeed at it?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Y―as much as I can! I don’t―yes, yes, my behavior is clean. I―y-you can’t really stop those impulsive thoughts sometimes, though, can you? Like getting a song stuck in your head, you just―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Ah, but you must watch your thoughts more carefully, my dear. Your mind is a stage which can only show one performance at a time, you know. You must not be trying hard enough to fill your mind with virtue, and banish what is unclean.</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>I am trying, I am! I―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>She is becoming hysterical again, and this time the lump of fear is harder to swallow down as the elder’s clear, familiar eyes become cold and distant. Why can’t you be more reverent, Siân? Why can’t you trust the Lord’s questions? Take a look over on that couch. That young woman is in a much worse place than you, and she’s been waiting calmly for much longer. She’s fallen so deep into sin that her fingernails are stained scarlet down to the quick. She has no chance of ever going through those doors in this life. And yet she holds her tongue and waits, repenting without end.</p>
<p>Of course, she knows no amount of her own effort will satisfy the demands of heaven. She knows there is no future for her here. But she stays, and she bears her burden with silent, submissive dignity. Why can’t you be more like her?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>I don’t <em> have </em>to be like her. My hands are clean. They’re clean!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Do you support or promote any teachings, practices, or doctrine contrary to those of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, no matter how trivial it may seem to you?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>I don’t! I swear, I don’t! Please―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Are there serious sins in your life that need to be resolved with priesthood authorities as part of your repentance? </p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (shaky) </em>No.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Are you lying to me? </p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>No!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (overlapping, rising in energy) </em>Are you lying to the Lord? How can you possibly think to hide from Him? How can you think to cloak the stains upon your soul? You carnal and filthy creature, how in your mortal frailness can you think to touch purity without being burned away with all your base corruption?</p>
<h5>[HE ALMOST SPITS THE LAST FEW WORDS. SIÂN SOBS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (abruptly quiet again) </em>Do you consider yourself worthy to enter the Lord’s house and participate in temple ordinances?</p>
<h4>
  <b>SIÂN</b>
</h4>
<p>Please, please, I need to―</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The elder ticks his tongue, and shakes his head, and looks up from his papers to glare directly into Siân’s eyes. She can see her reflection in his pupils, perfectly clearly, as if his face were flat silver. She sees her face caked in running makeup and thick, disgusting tears, the edges of them lined with red. She clutches at her dirty, wrinkled clothing and sees in the elder’s mirror eyes that the stains of grime on her skin are shaping into words. <em> Prideful. Rebellious. Unclean. Unrepentant. Unworthy.  </em></p>
<p>She wrenches her gaze away to see the young woman waiting on the couch, the penitent sinner sitting firm and contrite. The woman stares at her with eyes even bluer than the elder's, a blue that's fierce and hot, and the shame within her burns.</p>
<p>The blood on her cheek trickles down toward her chin. Siân covers her face with her hands and runs, too ashamed to even let a drop of scarlet dirty the temple’s pure white floor.</p>
<h5>[RUNNING FOOTSTEPS. THE DOOR FLIES LOUDLY OPEN, BUT QUIETLY SHUTS. STATIC FADES INTO SILENCE.]</h5>
<h5>[A PAPER FLIPS.]</h5><h4>
  <b>ELDER</b>
</h4>
<p>Might I help you with something, son?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I’m just here to meet someone. My boyfriend’s waiting outside.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ELDER</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (homophobically) </em>Ah.</p>
<h5>[THERE IS A SOFT, SHORT BARK OF A LAUGH FROM A NEW VOICE A FEW FEET AWAY―NEW, BUT FAMILIAR.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>SISTER PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Would it be tacky of me to say I knew you kids would make it work?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Believe it or not, that line’s already been used on us.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Yeah, that’s why I figured it’d be tacky.</p>
<p>Sit with me a minute, Brother Sims. Elder Rowley doesn’t mind us waiting here. He just won’t let us go all the way inside.</p>
<h5>[COUCH CREAKS AS THE ARCHIVIST SITS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I’m surprised you haven’t taken him out like you usually do to his type.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>I kill him, another takes his place. I kill the other, and all others who come up, but more and more continue to be formed, and all I gain is a thicker buildup of blood under my nails. Removing him won’t change the world that made him.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Did it take you all hundred and forty years to come to that conclusion?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Hundred forty? Where’d―oh, because I said seven, huh?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I...I assume when those seven loops finished is when you finally came through to the world after, yes?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Yeah, that’s what I’d assumed would happen too. <em> (sad laugh) </em>No. Seventy times seven. Four hundred ninety loops. Nine thousand, eight hundred years.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>...Dear God.</p>
<h5>[THE ELDER CLEARS HIS THROAT DISAPPROVINGLY. THE ARCHIVIST QUIETLY GRUMBLES, ALMOST GROWLS, IN HIS DIRECTION.]</h5>
<h5>[PETERSEN SIGHS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>I reached my conclusion long before, but I guess that wasn’t enough to set me free. I just had to wait it out. Keep watching.</p>
<p>I am so...<em>so, </em>so tired, Brother Sims. I got tired and I gave up. I tried helping people, but no matter how much I did, there was always more suffering that I just could not do anything about. And even though it felt good to punish people, I realized it was just causing even more suffering. For those who deserved it, for those who witnessed it, for those I was trying to save.</p>
<p>I tried repenting. I fasted. I prayed. I caused more suffering than ever before, but thought it was okay when it was just myself. And it still didn’t help anything. There’s not really any way for me to accept the Lord’s atonement now, after rejecting it for so long.</p>
<p>So now I wait here, as an example. Kept alive by people’s fear of not just being seen by me, but seeing me, and not measuring up to my image. Not holding out through their own trials with the amount of faith that they think they see in me.</p>
<h5>[SHE SNIFFS. WHEN SHE SPEAKS AGAIN, HER VOICE IS STRAINED, OBVIOUSLY GRINNING IN AN ATTEMPT TO HOLD BACK TEARS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Did you know, I never actually was supposed to be a missionary? There’s a temple ceremony you’re s’posed to do before you’re called, and I never did it. Because my recommend expired right after moving away from home. The last time I went inside the temple was before I even graduated high school. I just lied and cheated and manipulated however I had to to get the name tag and go around like I wanted.</p>
<p>Can you see inside it? See if it’s...actually safe?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I can see what you’re imagining if it isn’t.</p>
<p>In every corridor, there are paintings. Portraits of saints and prophets, pioneers and angels, all now facing you. You can see every eye turned to you, following you, judging you. They can see everything you’ve done, and they know you are unclean. Paintings of Christ no longer gaze with understanding and comfort but cold, stern blue judgment. Even the oxen in the baptismal font are watching you, eyes once blank white stone now slick, living black, blinking and turning and knowing exactly who you are. </p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Stop it.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>And even if you were allowed in the celestial room, those endless mirrors, once an inspiring promise of eternal love, will only be a reminder that this is all there is, this is all you are, and there will never be an escape―</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>Stop it!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>…</p>
<p>I’m sorry.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>There <em> is </em>an escape.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I don’t know if―</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>I don’t mean...for everyone. I know you and Martin are trying to set the world right, and I admire that, and I’m proud of you. But I’ve lived in that world long enough.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (softly) </em>I understand.</p>
<h5>[MOVEMENT; COUCH SQUEAKS AS THE ARCHIVIST GETS UP. A FEW QUIET FOOTSTEPS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I, um… <em> (awkwardly) </em>Okay. I-I know you’ve used different sets of pronouns over the years. Do you...have a preference…?</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p>To be perfectly honest, Archivist, you would know better than I.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Right.</p>
<h4>
  <b>PETERSEN</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (almost whispering) </em>Thank you.</p>
<h5>[THE ARCHIVIST EXHALES, PREPARING. STATIC CRACKLES.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Ceaseless Watcher. Look upon your servant, treacherous and devoted. See this heralder of faith and all the pain spread in your name, and with it, see the proud and bitter pull to disobedient love.</p>
<h5>[AS HE INTONES, PETERSEN LIGHTLY GASPS IN PAIN. THEIR BREATH BECOMES HIGH AND SHAKY, THOUGH THEY FIGHT TO KEEP STEADY.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Look upon the tithes of fear and devastation and loss that you have been given, and know that there shall Be. No. More.</p>
<p>This is the end of your disciple’s service. Let the apostate go.</p>
<h5>[PETERSEN GIVES A FINAL FEW NOTES OF BRUSQUE, PAINED LAUGHTER, WHICH FADES AND ECHOES INTO DISCORPORATION, AND SILENCE.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (tiredly) </em>Enter into your rest.</p>
<h5>[THE ELDER AT THE DESK FLIPS ANOTHER PAPER.]</h5>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<hr/>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
<h5>[THE CITYSCAPE BUZZES AND BUSTLES AGAIN. A DOOR CLOSES, AND FOOTSTEPS TROT DOWN A FEW STONE STAIRS.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>You alright?</p>
<h5>[HE REACHES THE END OF THE STAIRS, AND THE TWO OF THEM BEGIN WALKING TOGETHER.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I suppose so. Comparatively speaking. <em> (deep breath) </em>I did what we came here to do, and that’s good.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>Yeah, but―I don’t know, you look sort of...sick.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>The Eye didn’t want to give Sister Petersen up.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>But you were still able to do it? </p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Yes.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>That’s―that’s really good, John. That’s super good! That means you’ll be able to do the same to Elias, right? This was like a―a practice run. A dress rehearsal. Come opening night, you’ve already got it perfect.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (chuckling) </em>‘Never liked theater’, indeed.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>Hey, if you can come around on poetry, thennnn…<em> (forcing the words out) </em>mayyybe once everything is fixed, I’ll let you take me to a play. A real, proper one that you really like.</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Assuming, of course, that removing Jonah Magnus will actually fix anything―and, honestly, assuming that the Eye won’t fight even harder to keep him. Not to mention, Sister Petersen had already been fighting back for centuries. That was definitely a factor in being able to sever that link once and for all, and Magnus is <em> definitely </em>not going to do the same. Not to mention, I still have literally no knowledge of what’s actually happening up there―who’s to say he’s even still alive? Who’s to say he hasn’t been consumed by the Beholding, o-or, I don’t know, absorbed by it? Merged with it? Who’s to say he hasn’t made himself deity incarnate?</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>Okay, okay, let’s veer away from that for now. I read Sister Petersen’s statement, and I like her idea of <em> not </em>taking a Christian approach to this. All in favor of no Eyeball Jesus?</p>
<p>Look, whatever he is, we’ve made it this far. I’m scared, too, but I’m not giving up on you. You’ll figure something out.</p>
<h5>[FOOTSTEPS STOP. ABRUPTLY, FABRIC RUSTLES AND BAGS JANGLE, WITH A SOLID <em> FLUMP </em>OF A HUG.]</h5>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (off-balance, but smiling) </em>Whoop―hello!</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>I love you.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>What, for saying I believe in you? Or was it the theater comment?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Everything.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>Whoa, ‘everything.’ That’s grandiose. Do you even love it when I’m being sarcastic like this?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p>Yes.</p>
<h4>
  <b>MARTIN</b>
</h4>
<p>Alright. You win.</p>
<p>Onward, then?</p>
<h4>
  <b>ARCHIVIST</b>
</h4>
<p><em> (sharp, determined breath) </em>Onward, ever onward. It’s nearly showtime.</p>
<h5>[CLICK]</h5>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING! LOVE YOU!!!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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